LOVE  LETTERS  OF  THE  BACHELOR 
POET,  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


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LOVE   LETTERS 


The  portrait  of  Riley  on  the  left  is  from  a  tintype 
taken  in  1879.  It  was  sent  to  Miss  Elizabeth 
Kafflfef  feccbrtipanied  hv  -ffi^&r  verses,  as  shown  in 
the  facsimile:  — 


JAMES 

To  haunt  you  forever  with  eyes 
That  look  in  your  own  with  the  tenderest  grace 
Affectionate^  art  can  devise. 


n  me  language  of  smiles  andoftears, 
The  rainbow  of  love  would  illumine  the  cheek 
NOW  Fi*3fi1&Wffii&  tHe^oWtff«<f#iafe?s. 

WITH  NUMEROUS  FACSIMILES 

In  his  letter  to  Miss  Kahle  of  October  10,  1879, 
Riley  said:  — 

"And  I  write  ttow  simply  to  enclose  a  long-prom 
ised  tin-type,  for  it  is  not  a  likeness,  as  in  spite  of 
all  attempt^  my  face  refuses  to  be  reproduced  in 
even  'shadowy  similitude.'  The  general  contour 
of  head  and  features,  however,  is  exact,  and  the 
eyes  are  positively  the  best  I  have  ever  succeeded 
in  getting.  But  this  picture  I  intend  to  suppress 
as  soon  as  I  succeed  in  getting  a  successful  photo 
graph  of  the  present  Riley,  —  for  now,  as  I  told 
you,  my  face  is  a  barren  desert,  with  no  oasis  in 

p 


WIShEpe  of  a  mustache  to  bfea^pits  broad  monot 
ony  of  desolation,  arid  I  only  send   you  this  that 

as  a  sott  Qf  fo053^6  until  my 

present  and  future   self  arrives;  then    you   must 
-  ifCMXXII 


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ft.ti  mutei 


LOVE  LETTERS 

OF 

THE  BACHELOR  POET 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


TO 


MISS  ELIZABETH  KAHLE 

NOW  FIRST  PRINTED  FROM  THE  ORIGINALS 
WITH  NUMEROUS  FACSIMILES 


PRIVATELY  PRINTED,  EXCLUSIVELY  FOR 
MEMBERS  OF 

THE  BIBLIOPHILE  SOCIETY 

BOSTON  —  MCMXXII 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
THE  BIBLIOPHILE  SOCIETY 


All  rights  reserved 


FOREWORD 

It  has  been  observed  that  an  author  sel 
dom  appears  at  his  best  in  writing  love 
letters,  for  such  tender  missives  do  not 
generally  arouse  much  enthusiasm  in  any 
one  but  the  individual  to  whom  they  are 
addressed,  —  not  excepting  the  author  him 
self,  who  in  the  calmer  moments  of  disen 
chantment  is  apt  to  marvel  at  his  own 
unguarded  effusiveness.  The  love  letters 
of  Robert  Browning  afford  one  of  the  rare 
exceptions  to  this  rule,  and  the  present 
group  of  letters  written  by  James  Whitcomb 
Riley  to  Miss  Elizabeth  Kahle,  of  New 
Brighton,  Pa.,  are  unquestionably  the  most 
noble  —  as  they  are  also  the  most  self-re 
vealing  —  utterances  that  ever  fell  from  his 
pen. 

An  author  of  either  prose  or  verse  may 
reveal  but  little  of  self  in  his  published 
works,  but  in  these  unconventional  auto 
graph  letters  the  popular  American  Poet 
discloses  the  innermost  recesses  of  his 
[9] 


y 


nature  in  a  light  that  will  greatly  enhance 
the  admiration  of  even  his  most  devoted 
adherents.  They  will  likewise  be  of  almost 
equal  interest  to  those  who  know  their 
author  only  by  name.  In  fact,  had  they 
been  written  by  an  unknown  hand  they 
would  be  no  less  entitled  to  a  permanent 
place  in  our  literature. 

Although  these  letters  were  intended  for 
no  other  eyes  than  those  of  the  one  to  whom 
they  were  written,  the  bond  of  privacy  has 
been  loosed,  since  their  recipient  has 
voluntarily  disposed  of  them  with  the  full 
understanding  that  they  are  to  be  given  to 
the  world,  and  with  the  feeling  that  they 
will  afford  a  better  appreciation  of  the  true 
character  of  their  author.  The  correspond 
ence  having  begun  and  continued  for  up 
wards  of  three  years  before  they  met,  her 
profound  and  lasting  regard  for  him  was 
fostered  largely  by  these  intimate  letters, 
and  she  desires  now  in  her  latter  days  that 
the  medium  through  which  she  came  so 
closely  in  touch  with  the  human  qualities  of 
his  heart  and  soul  be  imparted  to  others  in 
order  that  they,  too,  may  know  and  esteem 
f  101 


his  personal  traits,  as  they  already  know 
and  admire  the  fruits  of  his  genius. 

Owing  to  the  fact  that  the  young  lady  was 
an  entire  stranger  to  Riley  at  the  com 
mencement,  he  felt  it  necessary  at  first  to 
write  much  about  himself,  which  happily  he 
did.  In  one  of  the  early  letters  —  that  of 
February  21,  1879  —  he  says:  "I  recognize 
the  fact  that  you  know  nothing  of  my  history, 
my  character,  social  position  and  all  that,  — 
perhaps  don't  care  to,  yet  I  believe  it  a  duty 
that  I  owe  both  to  you  and  to  myself  at  this 
juncture,  to  assure  you  of  the  fact  that  I  am 
a  young  man  and  unmarried.  I  write  senti 
mental  verses  occasionally,  simply  because 
I  don't  believe  in  love  and  am  anxious  to 
convince  myself  of  my  error,  possibly  —  I 
don't  know  why  else.  I  have  many  friends, 
but  more  enemies,  and  can  scarcely  tell 
which  I  most  enjoy  —  for  I  really  enjoy 
being  hated  by  some  people.  I  am  cynical 
in  a  marked  degree,  and  disagreeable  at 
times,  I  most  frankly  admit.  Socially  I 
move  in  the  best  circles,  —  not,  perhaps, 
because  I  was  'to  the  manor  born,'  but 
because —  because —  well,  I  recite  dialectic 
[11] 


poems  acceptably,  sing  comic  songs  and 
make  funny  faces,  all  of  which  seems  to 
please  everybody  but  myself,  for  when  I 
seem  the  happiest  is  when  I  feel  the  most 
like  crying  —  though  there  are  tunes  I  could 
take  the  whole  world  in  my  arms,  and  love 
it  as  I  would  a  great,  fat,  laughing  baby  with 
a  bunch  of  jingling  keys.  .  .  . 

"When  at  home  (my  home  is  like  yours, 
as  I  guess,  in  one  respect, — the  mother  isn't 
there)  —  when  at  home  I  live  mechanically, 
much  like  the  house-plants  —  not  so  obtru 
sive  perhaps,  but  quite  as  silent.  I  never 
speak  —  only  to  ask  for  more  sugar  for  my 
coffee,  or  to  say,  Tm  too  busy  to  waste  time 
at  the  wood-pile  —  I'll  send  a  boy'  (for  I 
have  a  step-mother,  by  the  way,  whose 
chief  delight  is  in  rasping  matter-o'-fact 
ideas  over  my  aesthetic  sensibilities). 
'What  is  a  home  without  a  (step)  Mother!' 
—  Give  it  up.  So  I  stay  here  in  my  down 
town  room  curled  up  like  a  wooley-worm, 
and,  when  at  work,  quite  happy  in  spite  of 
Fate,  Misfortune,  etc.,  etc." 

And  of  her  letters  to  him  he  says:  "Your 
letters,  drifting  out  of  the  unknown  and 

[121 


eddying  about  me  in  this  far-off  land,  come 
to  me  like  truant  whiffs  of  perfume  from 
enchanted  vales  .  .  .  When  you  write,  tell 
me  more  about  yourself.  Do  as  I  do,  — 
talk  of  nothing  but  yourself." 

The  five  year  period  over  which  the 
correspondence  extends  was  the  most  im 
portant  of  the  Poet's  life,  —  beginning  in 
the  obscure  days  when  he  was  struggling 
against  adverse  fates,  and  closing  just  as 
he  was  approaching  the  goal  of  his  ambi 
tion.  But  whatever  may  be  the  rewards  of 
Fame,  neither  happiness  nor  contentment 
appear  to  have  been  among  her  awards  to 
our  Hoosier  Poet.  For  although  most  of 
the  letters  are  of  a  hopeful  and  courageous 
tenor,  in  one  of  the  last  of  the  series,  fol 
lowing  one  in  which  he  writes  enthusiasti 
cally  of  having  returned  home  triumphant 
after  having  "conquered"  the  East,  he  says: 
"I  am  still  meeting  with  more  and  more 
success,  but  that  seems  even  more  pitilessly 
pathetic  than  the  old-time  agony  of  effort 
and  hunger  for  it.  What  is  to  become  of  it 
all  I  hardly  care.  I  am  only  stoically  wait 
ing  for  the  issue.  .  .  .  The  beautiful  vases 
[13] 


came,  but  one  was  broken  —  that  one  is 
me!  The  other  is  yourself,  so  it  is  very 
good  to  look  upon,  and  I  have  brought  it 
home,  where  all  my  best  things  are,  to 
gether  with  your  pictures  —  and  they  glad 
den  all  the  gloom  of  the  old  home  that  needs 
them  so."  And  again,  eighteen  months 
later, —  "Time  seems  utterly  stagnant  — 
and  my  life  and  all,  and  everything.  I  go 
about  and  I  write  some,  but  always  I  am 
very  tired  and  blue  and  hopeless.  The  sun 
shines,  but  7  don't."  All  of  which  may  be 
compared  to  the  feelings  of  one  who  climbs 
laboriously  to  some  lofty  mountain  peak, 
only  to  find  the  summit  barren,  bleak  and 
unsatisfying. 

The  discovery  of  these  veritable  human 
documents  is  the  more  opportune  because 
no  comprehensive  Life  of  Riley  has  yet 
appeared,  and  however  faithful  any  future 
biography  may  be  it  could  scarcely  be  more 
revelatory  than  the  contents  of  the  present 
volume,  which  —  apart  from  the  interesting 
romance  it  brings  to  light  —  must  therefore 
be  regarded  as  a  valuable  accessory  to  his 
published  works.  They  supply  indubitable 

[14] 


proof  of  the  source  from  which  he  derived 
the  inspiration  for  many  of  his  finest  poems ; 
they  reveal  a  side  of  his  nature  but  little 
known  to  his  readers,  and  they  contain 
withal  a  graphic  account  of  his  struggles, 
disappointments  and  successes  in  his  slow 
but  determined  evolution  from  poverty  and 
obscurity  to  affluence  and  fame.  His  estab 
lished  place  in  the  foremost  ranks  of  Ameri 
can  poets  is  now  universally  acknowledged, 
and  since  his  death  the  number  of  "Riley" 
collectors  has  steadily  increased,  until  his 
manuscripts,  letters  and  first  editions  are 
numbered  among  the  coveted  prizes  of  the 
auction  room. 

Throughout  the  years  that  Riley  was  in 
correspondence  with  Miss  Kahle  (who  later 
became  Mrs.  Brunn)  he  sent  her  many 
newspaper  and  magazine  clippings  contain 
ing  his  poems  and  accounts  of  his  work  in 
literature  and  on  the  lecture  platform.  The 
letters  contain  numerous  references  to  such 
items,  and  his  correspondent  states  that  she 
also  received  a  great  number  of  clippings, 
of  which  no  mention  was  made  in  the  letters. 
Many  of  these  which  she  considered  of 
[15] 


little  or  no  importance  were  either  lost  or 
destroyed;  but  among  the  items  that  were 
preserved  there  is  a  poem  which  will  be  of 
much  interest  to  the  literary  world.  This 
poem,  which  does  not  appear  to  have  been 
included  in  Riley's  published  works,  was 
probably  written  in  1880,  when  he  was  on 
the  editorial  staff  of  the  Indianapolis  Jour 
nal,  and  was  printed  on  a  four-page  leaflet 
(see  facsimile),  addressed  as  a  "New 
Year's  Greeting  of  the  Carriers  of  the 
Indianapolis  Journal."  It  is  quite  possible 
that  the  manuscript  perished  in  the  printing 
office  after  serving  its  purpose  in  the  com 
positor's  hands,  and  that  Riley  himself  for 
got  about  it  in  after  years  when  his  poems 
were  first  brought  together  and  published 
in  book  form.  Furthermore  it  is  not  at  all 
likely  that  more  than  a  very  limited  number 
of  the  leaflets  were  issued,  and  owing  to  the 
fact  that  the  poem  was  unsigned,  and  the 
further  fact  that  newspaper  "carriers"  are 
not  usually  gifted  with  the  collector's  in 
stinct,  it  is  doubtful  if  many  copies  were 
long  preserved.  —  Indeed  it  may  be  that 
the  one  he  sent  to  Miss  Kahle  is  the  only 
[16] 


•frCarriers-H- 


OF  THE 


J laauM j 


«*i 


T   was  the  night/ ere  New  Year's  night, 

And  a  poet  sat  in  a  dreary  gloomy 
Lit  with  a  glimmer  of  anthracite, 

That  grimly  gleamed  in  the  cheerless  room; 
And  a  dim  lamp  winked  in  a  dismal  way 

Back  in  the  eyes,  so  weighed  with  care 
That  the  tired  lids  drooped  o'er  the  page  that  lay 

Still  untouched  on  the  table  there. 

He  had  counted  his  teeth  with  his  pencil  tip 

In  a  long  "vain  search  for  a  New  Year's  theme — 
He  had  drummed  the  rubber  against  his  lip, 

And  drowsed  with  the  eyes  that  would  not  dream 
And  over  and  over  a  thousand  times 

He  had  twirled  the  pencil  to  and  fro, 
And  danced  each  end  through  a  thousand  rhymes 

Used  for  a  thousand  times  or  so. 

And  he  dashed  it  aside  at  last  and  said: 
"It  is  as  vain  for  a  man  to  seek 
A  New  Year's  song  in  an  old  year's  head, 
As  the  rose  of  youth  in  an  old  man's  cheek. 


What  remains  for  the  minstrel's  tongue 

When  his  art  has  grown  but  a  cheerless  thing? 

When  his  song  is  the  same  he  has  always  sung, 
What  is  there  left  for  a  man  to  sing?" 

And  lo!  as  he  bent  in  a  grief  profound, 

The  table  tipped,  and  the  pencil   rolled 
Hack  in  the  hand  that  had  dashed  it  down. 

And  a  low  voice  spake  in  his  ear.  "  Behold, 
Kest  shall  come  to  the  weary  brain. 

And  on  your  eyes  till  the  early  dawn 
Sleep  shall  dwell  and  oblivion  reign — 

While  hand  and  pencil  still  write  on." 

And  so  he  slept,  or  it   seemed  he  slept, 

Hut  ever  his  shut  eyos  seemed  aware 
<  M'  the  pencil  still  in  his  fingers  kept, 

Scrawling  rhymes  o'er  the  pages  there — 
Scrawling,  just  of  itself  alone, 

(^uips  and  jingles  of  quaint  design, 
Such  as  never  his  mind  had  known, 

Or  thought  invented,  or  could  define. 

'And  to  start  with,  now,"  the  pencil  wrote. 

•'I   will  sing  you  a  song  of  the  olden  days, 
When  the  bard's  cue  powdered  his  crimson  coat 

As  he  read  to  the  King  his  roundelays. 
1   will  sing  you  a  song  of  Christmas  cheer 

So  old  (hat  the  poet  who  writ  the  stave 
Lies  buried,  hundreds  of  years  from  here, 

Safe  with  his  songs  in  an  unknown  grave*" 


And  it  is  a  song  for  Christmas 

Ye  would  have  me  sing  this  night, 

While  ye  wassail  steams  on  ye  table, 
And  ye  yule-fire  crackles  bright. 

And  it  is  a  merry  chanson, 

Full  heartsome  and  warm  with  cheer. 
Whose  echoes  hid  in  ye  rafters 

Shall  clap  their  hands  to  hear. 

Then  ho,  for  ye  4&"ijfeo  of  holly, 
And  hoy  for  ye  sparkling  wine, 

And  ho/ for  ye  chimes  of  Christmas  times 
In  this  jovial  song  of  mine. 


m,   * 


Ye  kine  may  moo  in  ye  stable, 
And  ye  milkmaid  blow  her  nails, 

And  ye  milk  home  come  with  a  frosty  skum 
Crusting  ye  milking  pails. 

Ye  brook  may  leap  from  its  laughter 

To  a  silence  of  frozen  foam, 
And  ye  cock  may  crow  not,  fearing 

To  jostle  his  fro/en  comb. 

But  ho,  we  will  sing  by  ye  hearthstone, 
Where  ye  yule-fire  crackles  bright, 

A  song  of  cheer  for  ye  winter  drear, 
And  ye  hearts  warm-housed  to-night. 

And  what  if  ye  chill  December 

Shall  etch  on  ye  window  pane, 
Miniature  mountains  and  glaciers, 

And  gulphs  of  his  bleak  domain? 

And  ye  stars  in  ye  skies  seem  twinkling 

In  icicles  of  light, 
And  ye  edge  of  ye  wind  cuts  keener 

Than  ever  ye  sword-edge  might? 

And  ye  footstep  crunch  in  ye  court-way, 
And  ye  trough  and  ye  cask  go  ping, 

And  ye  china  crack  in  ye  pantry, 
And  ye  cricket  cease  to  sing? 

Why,  ho  for  ye  twigs  of  holly, 

And  ho  for  ye  sparkling  wine, 
And  ho  for  ye  chimes  of  Christmas  times, 

In  this  jovial  song  of  mine? 


And  then,  as  though  in  a  spasm  of  glee, 

The  pencil  wriggled  and  writhed  about, 
And  drew  strange  figures,  and  smilingly 

Wrinkled  their  faces,  and  putted  them  out; 
And  one,  the  form  of  a  gray  old  man, 

Caught  at  his  long,  thin  beard  and  hair, 
Blowing  the  way  that  his  pathway  ran, 

And  sang  to  the  storm  this  mystic  air: 


0 


iiD 


I  am  old,  and  my  figure  is  shrunken 
And   palsit'd   and   \v««ary  and   weak, 


And  I  totter  and  reel  as  one  drunken 

Whose  footsteps  know  not  what  they  seek, 

And  my  eyes,  all  so  hollow  and  sunken, 
Are  rained  full  of  tears  as  I  speak. 

'Twas  a  brief  year  ago,  I  remember — 

I  am  sure  but  a  brief  year  ago — 
That  I  stood  on  the  grave  of  December, 

Where  never  a  lily  may  blow: 
And  the  heart  of  me  burnt  like  an  ember 

In  smoldering  ashes  of  snow. 

And  the  world — ah!  the  world  it  seemed  waiting 

To  welcome  me  heir  of  it  all, 
With  a  thousand  sweet  voices  relating 

The  legends  of  love,  where  the  tall, 
Stately  evergreen's  boughs  were  vibrating, 

And  holly-wreaths  hung  on  the  wall. 

And  I  heard,  as  one  might  who  is  dreaming 

Of  melody,  song  upon  song; 
And  I  smiled  back  in  eyes  that  were-  beaming 

With  rapture;   and  all  the  night  long, 
Low  ripples  of  laughter  came  streaming 

From  hearts  that  knew  never  a  wrong. 

The  clangor  of  bells  was  around  me, 
The  ringing  applause  of  the  throng 

That  had  lifted  a  shout  as  they  found  me, 
And  raised  me,  and  bore  me  along, 

And  with  garlands  of  roses  had  bound  me, 
And  crowned  me  with  roses  of  song. 


I  am  old,  now,  though  still  I  remember 
My  youth  of  a  brief  year  ago; — 

But  again  on  the  brink  of  December, 
Where  never  a  lilv  may  blow, 

I  thank  God  there  still  burns  an  ember 
Of  faith  in  the  ashes  of  snow  ! 


So  closed  the  song:  and  the  pencil  and 
Its  strange  gyrations  ceased  and  fell, 

And  the  poet,  waking,  found  his  hand 
Folded  ever  the  word  "Farewell." 


one  that  survived.  On  this  copy  he  made 
several  lead  pencil  corrections  (most  of  his 
letters  to  her  were  written  in  lead  pencil), 
chiefly  in  punctuation,  though  in  one  place 
he  corrected  what  seems  to  have  been  a 
compositor's  blunder  in  making  the  text 
read  "things  of  holly"  instead  of  "twigs  of 
holly."  Mrs.  Brunn  (nee  Kahle)  states 
that  she  distinctly  remembers  receiving  this 
leaflet  from  Riley,  and  that  although  a  great 
many  other  poems  in  the  form  of  newspaper 
and  magazine  clippings  were  destroyed 
because  she  did  not  at  that  time  "consider 
them  worth  saving,"  she  placed  this  one 
among  his  letters  because  she  particularly 
fancied  it;  —  though  she  perhaps  little 
dreamed  what  a  precious  item  it  was  des 
tined  to  become. 

The  ending  of  the  correspondence  gives 
rise  to  various  deductions  and  conjectures, 
and  it  has  therefore  been  deemed  advisable 
to  print  the  letters  practically  free  from 
editorial  comment.  In  this  way  each  reader 
may  enjoy  the  privilege  of  reading  them 
just  as  Riley  wrote  them,  and  be  free 
to  draw  such  inferences  as  the  letters, 
f  171 


either  singly  or  collectively,  may  seem  to 
warrant. 

Mrs.  Brunn  says  that  after  she  had  cor 
responded  with  Riley  for  about  two  years 
he  made  her  several  visits  at  New  Brighton, 
and  that  when  she  received  the  last  letter 
of  the  series  she  had  been  lately  married, 
therefore  she  did  not  answer  it,  as  it  seemed 
improper  to  continue  a  correspondence  with 
an  unmarried  man. 

In  a  sworn  statement  which  accompanies 
the  letters,  their  former  owner  declares  that 
they  have  been  in  her  possession  ever  since 
she  received  them;  that  none  of  them  have 
ever  been  published,  and  that  not  more  than 
ten  persons  —  mostly  her  family  and  close 
friends  —  have  ever  read  the  originals. 
The  Bibliophile  Society  was  indeed  fortu 
nate  in  acquiring  possession  of  this  treasure- 
trove,  which  was  accomplished  through  the 
kind  mediation  of  one  of  our  members,  Mr. 
John  Needels  Chester,  of  Pittsburgh,  who 
procured  them  for  us  direct  from  their 
owner. 

H.  H.  H. 


18 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  THE  BACHELOR 
POET,  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  THE  BACHELOR 
POET,  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


Greenfield,  Ind., 
January  20,  1879. 

"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madamt  truly  your  forgiveness 
I  implore!"* 

L.D.  Kahle:  — 

A  few  days  since,  I  received  by  mail  a 
graceful  little  poem  in  MS.,  addressed  "To 
a  Poet,"  and  bearing  the  signature  "L.  D. 
Kahle,  New  Brighton,  Penn." 

As  it  came  without  letter  or  explanation, 
and  as  the  name  given  is  wholly  unknown 
to  me,  I  am  at  some  loss  to  account  for  it; 
and  I  address  you  in  the  hope  that  "L.  D. 
Kahle"  is  a  reality,  and  will  further  favor 
me  as  intimated. 

Of  the  poem,  I  take  the  liberty  of  saying 
that  I  like  it,  and  think  some  touches  it 

*Riley  quotes  this  appropriate  line  from  the  fourth  stanza  of 
Poe's  "Raven,"  where  the  speaker  addressed  himself  to  an 
unknown  visitor  who  came  "tapping  at  his  chamber  door." 

[191 


contains  are  simply  exquisite.  In  style  and 
finish  it  is  new  to  me,  and  I  must  frankly 
add  that  there  is  a  something  in  it  makes 
me  like  its  unknown  author;  and  should 
this  reach  that  person  it  will  require  no 
unusual  tension  of  that  fancy  to  discover 
here  enclosed  the  warmest  pressure  of  my 
hand. 

Very  truly  yours, 

J.  W.  RlLEY 


Greenfield,  Ind., 

January  29,  1879. 
Miss  L.  D.  Kahle  — 
Dear  friend:  — 

Your  letter  comes  to  me  like  "AThynge 
of  Wytchencref,"  —  strange  —  mystical  — 
mesmeric.  I  think  we  have  known  each 
other  all  our  lives  and  never  met  till  now, 
for  even  as  you  wrote,  "I  am  an  artist," 

"With  inward  vision  my  outward  sight  grew 
dim, 

I  knew  the  rhythmic  secret  of  the  spheres, 
I  caught  the  cadence,  and  a  noble  hymn 

Swam  swan-like  in  upon  the  gliding  years." 

[20] 


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I  was  once  stark,  staring  mad  to  be  an 
artist,  but  unlike  yourself,  I  never  realized 
the  sweet  fruition  of  my  dreams. 

"My  crayon  cupids,  reddening  into  shape, 
Betrayed  my  talents  to  design  and —  scrape" 

—  nothing  more.  So  I  leant  my  easel  in 
the  corner  like  a  pair  of  tongues  [tongs?] 
and  gave  my  pictures  to  the  poor  —  deter 
mined  that  henceforward,  like  little  Tom 
Tucker,  I  would  sing  for  my  "supper"  — 
though  at  times  I  sadly  fear  that  in  running 
away  from  the  thunder,  I  have  run  into  the 
lightning,  for  with  good  Chispa,  I  am  left 
to  exclaim,  —  "Alas  and  alack-a-day!  Poor 
was  I  born,  and  poor  do  I  remain.  I  neither 
win  nor  lose.  Thus  I  wag  through  the 
world,  half  the  time  on  foot,  and  the  other 
half  walking!" 

As  Miss  Broughton  would  say,  why  did 
not  you  enclose  in  your  letter  a  sketch  of 
some  bit  of  life  or  fancy?  And  may  I  ask, 
what  is  your  peculiar  trend  in  art?  The 
fanciful,  I  would  guess.  If  so,  I've  a  poem 
you  must  illustrate.  It  will  make  both  our 
fortunes.  It's  too  wildly  extravagant,  as  it 
[21] 


is,  for  the  pokey  old  public  to  comprehend. 
You  would  understand  it,  and  could  make 
the  world,  —  but  will  you?  I  am  quite 
serious,  and  it's  a  glorious  theme  for  an 
artist.  It  is  filled  with  most  uncanny 
sprites  and  eldritch  things  —  unheard-of 
wonders  in  undreamed-of  lands,  where 
musical  perfumes  and  odorous  melodies 
haunt  all  the  winds,  and  blur  the  eyes  of 
Night  with  drowsiness  that  never  sleeps, 
and  dreams  that  never  end.*  Your  pardon, 
but  I  do  so  like  to  talk  about  the  "Gems  of 
purest  ray  serene"  that  drip  like  dew-drops 
from  my  pen  inspired!  !  !  !  ! 

Yet  with  all  this  air  of  nonchalance,  let 
me  be  frank  and  say  that  I  am  quite  uneasy, 
wondering  as  I  write  if  you  will  really  smile 

*Mr.  Charles  W.  Farnham,  of  St.  Paul,  Minn.,  has  very 
kindly  furnished  the  following  note:  "Riley  undoubtedly 
refers  here  to  a  long  poem  which  ordinarily  occupies  a  volume 
by  itself,  and  which  is  called  'The  Flying  Islands  of  the  Night.' 
It  contains  much  verse  that  is  very  musical  and  fanciful,  some 
that  is  deliberately  nonsensical.  My  own  experience  with  it 
is,  that  you  must  take  it  in  bits  —  not  attempt  to  read  the 
whole  thing  at  a  sitting  or  consecutively  —  though  I  may  not 
do  justice  to  it  in  this  attitude.  I  had  some  conversation 
with  Mr.  Riley  about  it  and  he  was  pleased  that  I  compli 
mented  certain  parts  of  it;  or,  as  he  said,  that  I  even  noticed 
it  at  all,  because  'most  everybody  else  ignores  it.  It  seems 
to  be  too  extravagant  and  fanciful,  and  to  have  too  much 
nonsense  in  it  for  any  number  of  people  to  care  anything  about 
it.' " 

[221 


where  I  would  have  you,  and  fearing  that 
you  may  not  find  beneath  it  all  the  nobler 
motive  that  inspires  it.  Be  lenient  in  your 
judgment  of  me  —  if  indeed  you  give  the 
matter  any  thought.  The  future  shall  re 
store  the  trust  untarnished  as  pure  gold. 

Although  you  have  called  yourself  "a 
romantic  girl,"  believe  me,  I  do  not  address 
you  as  such.  That  avowal  coming  as  it 
does,  I  understand;  and  to  assure  you  how 
wholly  I  do  understand  it  and  appreciate  it 
at  real  value,  I  tell  you  truly  that  I  don't 
believe  it.  Romantic  things  are  good  in 
Art  and  Poetry,  but  a  Woman's  heart  is 
worth  them  all,  —  and  such  a  heart  as  that 
is  yours,  I  am  sure. 

Your  good  words  spoken  of  my  poetry 
have  encouraged  me  to  ask  if  I  may  send 
you  something  in  prose.  It  will  more  than 
delight  me  if  you  will,  for  then  I  may  find 
newer  courage  to  ask  for  other  specimens  of 
your  writings,  as  well  as  the  sketches,  which 
I  can  assure  you  will  be  quite  as  highly 
appreciated.  In  return  for  them  I  hereby 
agree  to  talk  Holbein,  Dtirer,  Hogarth, 
Rembrandt,  Chiaro  Scuro,  etc.,  &c,  the  full 

[23] 


"perspective"  of  my  "fore-shortened"  capa 
bilities,  "picking  out"  the  same  with  such 
"subtle  touches"  of  "light  and  shade"  as 
this  "magic  wand"  of  Faber's  can  evoke. 

Earnestly  hoping  to  hear  from  you  soon, 
and  trusting  you  will  indulge  the  hectic 
gaiety  of  my  poor  letter,  I  am,  with  all  good 
wishes, 

Your  sincere  friend, 

J.  W.  RlLEY 

P.  S.  —  I  have  just  received  a  letter  that 
reminds  me  of  a  duty  I  yet  owe  you.  This 
will  require  another  page  or  two.  Will  you 
bear  with  me?  This  unhappy  sequel  may 
pain  you,  though  not  more  than  it  will  me 
as  I  give  it  utterance. 

Your  little  poem  so  pleased  me  I  showed 
it  to  a  journalistic  friend  while  at  Indian 
apolis  the  other  day;  and  influenced  —  not 
by  vanity  I  assure  you  —  but  by  some 
indefinable  impulse,  I  allowed  him  to  retain 
it  for  publication,  modestly  suggesting  a 
change  of  title  for  our  mutual  sakes.  And 
then  in  ignorance  most  blissful  I  awaited 
the  denoument  that  was  to  literally  crush 

[24] 


me,  and  be  the  means  perhaps  of  wrenching 
me  from  the  grasp  of  your  regard  for  all 
time. 

The  day  of  doom  arrived,  and  in  the 
coming  state  of  frenzy  now  about  to  fall 
upon  you,  I  leave  you  to  imagine  my  per 
turbed  and  startled  attitude  to  find  the  poem 
published  with  the  glaring  caption,  — 

MY  PALACE   OF  PEARL  AND  FIRE 
To  J.  W.  RILEY 

with  your  name  and  address  in  full  blazoned 
at  the  bottom.* 

Now  spare  me  if  you  can.  I  deserve  to 
hang,  however  much  I  prefer  a  life-sentence 
in  the  close  imprisonment  of  your  regard. 

*Mrs.  Brunn  states  that  she  first  met  Riley — when  she  was 
a  girl  of  seventeen  —  at  a  literary  society  meeting  in  Spring 
field,  Ohio,  where  he  read  some  of  his  poems.  She  was  only 
one  of  many  to  whom  he  was  introduced  in  a  perfunctory 
manner,  and  he  did  not  remember  her.  She  greatly  admired 
him  as  a  poet  and  an  interpreter  of  poetry  and  after  returning 
to  her  home  in  Pennsylvania  she  sent  him  a  poem  that  she 
copied  from  a  newspaper.  The  fact  that  she  neglected  to  use 
quotation  marks  led  him  to  suppose  that  she  was  the  author 
of  the  verses.  She  says  that  the  poem  was  written  by  Emma 
Alice  Brown,  "who  lived  and  wrote  in  the  early  50's."  Mrs. 
Brunn  can  recall  only  the  last  stanza,  which  runs,  — 

Come  up  to  my  palace  among  the  hills, 

For  a  stately  house  is  mine  — 

O'  come,  my  Poet,  and  drink  with  me 

The  Blood  of  Immortal  Wine. 

[251 


In  reality,  I  am  not  wholly  blamable.  I 
admit  my  disloyalty  to  the  trust  you  so 
graciously  reposed  in  me,  but  for  the  luck 
less  manner  in  which  the  poem  was  pre 
sented  to  the  public  the  editor  deserves  our 
mutual  ire.  And  I  wrote  him  a  letter  of 
indignation,  demanding  in  the  name  of  all 
things  sacred  what  he  meant  by  such  a 
liberty,  to  which  he  mockingly  responded, 
that  "The  readers  of  The  Herald  would 
take  more  interest  in  it  if  they  knew  it  was 
intended  for  anybody  in  particular,  you 
know." 

Forgive  me,  I  pray  you  in  all  contrition 
and  sincerity.  I  believe  you'd  really  pity 
me  if  you  could  look  upon  me  as  I  sheepishly 
acknowledge  all  this.  It's  late  at  night, 
and  I  am  all  alone,  and  there's  a  mirror  just 
across  the  room,  but  I  wouldn't  look  into  it, 
as  I  now  feel,  for  a  genuine  18-carat  "Palace 
of  Pearl  and  Fire"  as  big  as  your  Exposition 
Building. 

The  only  recompense  in  my  power  to 

offer  you  is  a  poem  in  response,  which  — 

if  it  will  in  any  way  allay  your  vengeful 

feelings  toward  me  —  you  may  publish  in 

[26] 


all  its  inferior  merit,  that  it  may  rise  up 
before  the  world  and  shake  its  gory  locks 
at  me  and  say  I  did  it.  — 

MINE* 

AN  EXTRAVAGANZA 

"Mine  she  is,  —  of  the  whole  world  miner9 

I  knew  you  long  and  long  before 

God  sprinkled  stars  upon  the  floor 

Of  Heaven,  and  swept  this  soul  of  mine 

So  far  beyond  the  reach  of  thine. 

Ere  day  was  born  I  saw  your  face 

Hid  in  some  starry  hiding-place 

Where  our  old  moon  was  kneeling  while 

You  lit  its  features  with  your  smile. 

I  knew  you  while  the  earth  was  yet 

A  baby —  ere  the  helpless  thing 

Could  cry,  or  crawl,  or  anything; 

Nor  ever  will  my  soul  forget 

How  drowsy  Time,  low  murmuring 

A  lullaby  above  it,  kept 

A-nodding  till  he  dozed,  and  slept, 

And  knew  it  not,  till  wakening, 

The  Morning  Stars  began  to  sing. 

I  knew  you  even  as  the  hands 

Of  angels  set  your  sculptured  form 

Upon  a  pedestal  of  storm, 

And  lowered  you  to  earth  with  strands 

Of  twisted  lightning.    And  I  heard 


*We  are  unable  to  find  that  the  first  thirty-nine  lines  of 
this  poem  have  ever  been  printed.  —  ED. 

[27] 


Your  voice  ere  you  could  speak  a  word 

Of  any  but  the  Angel-tongue. — 

I  listened  and  I  heard  you  say, — 

"Though  Heaven  sows  our  souls  among 

The  worlds  a  million  miles  away 

Each  from  the  other,  they  will  lean 

Their  tendrils  nearer,  day  by  day, 

Till  all  the  lands  that  intervene 

Shall  dwindle  slowly,  and  the  space 

Shall  see  them  vine-like  interlace 

Caressingly,  and  climb  and  twine 

Up  trellises  of  summer-shine, 

And  burst  above  in  bloom  divine!" 

And  even  as  you  spake,  a  stream 

Of  some  strange  rapture  over-ran 

My  laughing  lips,  and  thus  began 

The  unknown  song  that  men  call  "Dream." 

Because  her  eyes  were  far  too  deep 
And  holy  for  a  laugh  to  leap 
Across  the  brink  where  sorrow  tried 
To  drown  within  the  amber  tide, — 
Because  the  looks  whose  ripple  kissed 
The  trembling  lids  through  tender  mist 
Were  glamoured  with  a  radiant  gleam — 
Because  of  this  I  called  her  "Dream." 

Because  the  roses  growing  wild 
About  her  features  when  she  smiled 
Were  ever  dewed  with  tears  that  fell 
With  tenderness  no  tongue  could  tell, — 
Because  her  lips  might  spill  a  kiss, 
That  dripping  in  a  world  like  this 

[28] 


Would  tincture  death's  myrrh-bitter  stream 
To  sweetness—  so  I  called  her  "Dream." 

Because  I  could  not  understand 

The  magic  touches  of  a  hand 

That  seemed,  beneath  her  strange  control, 

To  smoothe  the  plumage  of  the  soul, 

And  calm  it,  till  with  folded  wings 

It  half  forgot  its  flutterings, 

And  nestled  in  her  warm  esteem 

And  trilled  a  song,  and  called  her  "Dream." 

Because  I  saw  her  in  a  sleep 
As  desolate,  and  dark,  and  deep, 
And  fleeting  as  the  empty  night 
That  brings  a  vision  of  delight 
To  some  poor  convict  as  he  lies 
In  slumber  ere  the  day  he  dies— 
Because  she  vanished  like  a  gleam 
Of  Heaven  do  I  call  her  "Dream." 

J.  W.  RTLEY 

Pardon  paper  and  pencil.  My  writing  is 
bad  enough  at  best,  but  with  a  pen,  most 
wretchedly  atrocious. 

Greenfield,  Ind., 

February  21,  1879. 
Miss  L.  D.  Kahle  — 
Dear  friend :  — 

You  were  good  enough  to  honor  me  some 
weeks  ago  with  a  communication  that  elated 
[291 


me  to  that  degree  of  exuberant  delight,  I 
responded,  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  your 
letter  contained  nothing  to  warrant  such  a 
liberty  on  my  part.  I  did  more ;  I  filled  page 
after  page  with  the  lightest  pleasantries  — 
as  I  then  thought,  but  now  think  —  hearing 
nothing  from  you  in  return  —  have  very 
probably  been  received  by  you  with  any 
thing  but  that  pleasure  and  kindly  welcome 
I  had  dared  to  anticipate  for  them.  Although 
guiltless  of  any  motive  but  to  give  you 
pleasure,  I  can  but  find  hi  my  own  thought 
lessness  full  cause  for  your  being  affronted 
at  what  has  doubtless  seemed  to  you  pure 
impudence.  Used  as  I  am  to  all  manner 
of  rebuffs,  in  public  and  in  private,  I  confess 
I  have  had  nothing  to  so  deeply  pain  me  as 
the  consideration  that  you  have  (naturally 
enough,  perhaps)  misinterpreted  my  real 
character  in  thinking  me  either  frivolous, 
sentimental,  or  anything  beneath  the  dignity 
of  true  manliness,  or  at  least  that  aspiration. 
And  yet  I  feel  that  my  position  with  you  now 
is  such  that  I  can  offer  nothing,  either  by  way 
of  extenuation  or  explanation,  but  that  which 
would  simply  be  to  you  further  annoyance. 

[301 


Mentally  reviewing  my  former  letters  to 
find,  if  possible,  wherein  I  could  have  un- 
designedly  offended,  I  recall  that  portion 
relating  to  the  publication  of  your  poem,  and 
my  confession  of  the  chagrin  I  felt  upon 
seeing  it  in  print.  Possibly  you  may  have 
misunderstood  me  there.  The  cause  of  my 
chagrin  was  to  see  it  thus  publicly  appear 
addressed  to  me,  without  your  consent,  and 
the  awkward  and  unjust  position  in  which  it 
might  place  us  both.  And  with  good  cause, 
therefore,  did  I  deplore  this  unfortunate 
fact,  —  for  the  following  week,  in  the  same 
paper,  appeared  a  rythmical  screed  ad 
dressed  to  you  by  a  literary  Thugg  of  some 
local  reputation,  in  which  you  were  advised 
of  the  utter  uselessness  of  inviting  me  to 
your  "Palace  of  Pearl  and  Fire,"  since  my 
utter  selfishness  in  the  pursuit  of  fame 
wouldn't  permit  me  for  an  instant  to  bestow 
my  attentions  in  any  direction  that  might 
be  of  pleasure  to  a  fellow-pilgrim,  etc.,  etc. 
Nor  was  this  all;  the  week  following,  ap 
peared  another  screed  from  an  evident 
admirer  of  mine,  in  which  the  "Thugg"  is 
informed  that  '  *  When  poets  are  asked  to  tip 
[31] 


the  flask  of  the  blood  of  immortal  wine,  to 
them  alone  was  the  privilege  known  to 
accept  or  to  decline"  —  or  something  like 
that —  anyway,  intimating  that  the  "Thugg" 
was  nothing  but  a  "verse-carpenter,"  treas 
uring  a  malice  toward  "our  poet"  (that's  me 

—  O  fame,  where  is  thy  sting?),  for  having 
publicly  unveiled  some  of  his  prolific  plagiar 
ies,  etc.,  etc.,  —  and  so  the  war  goes  on, 
and  on  —  for  I  feel  that  the  end  is  not  yet 

—  "and  the  burden  laid  upon  me  seems 
greater  than  I  can  bear." 

As  to  the  unfortunate  cause  of  all  this,  I 
desire  to  say  most  truthfully  that  your  poem 
made  me  very  proud  —  I  was  proud  of  it, 
and  am  proud  of  it,  and  shall  continue  to  be 
proud  of  it  till  you  yourself  object,  and  even 
in  that  instance  I  shall  bury  it  away  in  some 
dark  recess  of  my  heart,  and  grope  down 
there  and  like  it  all  alone  by  myself. 

I  write  this  in  the  hope  that  you  may 
believe  me  wholly  sincere.  If  I  have 
offended  you  in  any  way,  may  I  hope  for 
your  forgiveness?  I  don't  know  why  I  so 
desire  your  good  opinion,  but  I  do  desire  it, 

—  whether  worthy  of  it  or  not,  I  cannot  say; 

[32] 


however  that  may  be,  I  would  be  delighted 
to  know  you  cared  enough  to  inquire,  for  in 
that  instance  I  could  then  offer  references 
which  might  be  received  by  you  with  far 
more  interest  than  any  words  of  mine,  — 
for  I  recognize  the  fact  that  you  know  noth 
ing  of  my  history,  my  character,  social  posi 
tion  and  all  that,  —  perhaps  don't  care  to, 
yet  I  believe  it  a  duty  that  I  owe  both  to  you 
and  to  myself  at  this  juncture,  to  assure  you 
of  the  fact  that  I  am  a  young  man  and  un 
married.    I  write  sentimental  verses  occa 
sionally,  simply  because  I  don't  believe  in 
love,  and  am  anxious  to  convince  myself  of 
my  error,  possibly  —  I  don't  know  why  else. 
I  have  many  friends,  but  more  enemies, 
and  can  scarcely  tell  which  I  most  enjoy, 
for  I  really  enjoy  being  hated  by  some 
people.    I  am  cynical  in  a  marked  degree, 
and  disagreeable  at  times,  I  most  frankly 
admit.     Socially,  I  move  in  the  best  circles, 
—  not,  perhaps,   because  I  was   "to  the 
manor  born,"  but  because —  because — well, 
I  recite   dialectic  poems  acceptably,  sing 
comic  songs   and  make  funny  faces,   all 
of  which  seems  to  please  everybody  but 
[33] 


myself,  for  when  I  seem  the  happiest  is  when 
I  feel  most  like  crying — though  there  are 
times  I  could  take  the  whole  world  in  my 
arms,  and  love  it  as  I  would  a  great,  fat, 
laughing  baby  with  a  bunch  of  jingling  keys. 
Trusting  you  will  recognize  the  truthful 
ness  and  earnestness  of  all  that  I  have  said, 
and  hoping  for  such  a  response  as  I  can  but 
feel  is  due  me  in  the  very  peculiar  and  un 
comfortable  position  from  which  you  alone 
can  extricate  me,  I  am, 

Very  respectfully  yours, 

J.  W.  RlLEY 

P.  S.  —  This  postscript  will  be  a  much 
happier  one  for  me  to  write  than  my  first, 
for  I  have  just  received  your  letter  of  date 
15th,  in  which,  as  the  old  romance  winds  up, 
—  "all  has  been  explained." 

I  am  delighted  beyond  all  words  to  find 
evidence  of  the  fact  that  I  have  not  been 
misinterpreted,  and  I  thank  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  for  the  frankness  and 
confidence  in  which  you  have  spoken.  I 
shall  certainly  think  none  the  less  of  you 

[34] 


because  you  really  can't  write  poetry,  while 
you  write  such  truths.  —  As  you  intimate, 
it  must,  at  such  a  time,  have  required 
extraordinary  courage  and  magnanimity.  To 
tell  the  fact  about  it,  I  believe  I  admire  you 
more  for  this  avowal  than  had  you  written 
in  its  stead  the  most  majestic  sonnet. 

Though  my  former  explanation,  etc.,  will 
be  now  of  little  value,  I  send  it,  hoping  you 
will  find  hi  it,  scattered  here  and  there, 
scraps  of  my  better-self,  and  because  I  am 
about  leaving  home  for  some  business  en 
gagements  and  have  much  hard  work  before 
me.  Yet  I  can  most  truthfully  assure  you, 
I  will  go  with  a  much  lighter  heart,  having 
heard  from  you  so  pleasurably. 

Have  you  the  faculty  —  though  of  course 
you  have  —  of  seeing  even  what  is  but 
vaguely  described  to  you?  I  have,  and  in 
consequence  I  see  you  and  your  little  old 
father  living  away  out  there  all  alone  by 
yourselves  like  the  Mr.  Twomeleys  (is  that 
the  name?)  and  his  father  in  Great  Expecta 
tions,  and  living  just  as  happily.  It  is 
monotonous,  of  course;  yet  you  are  brave, 
I  guess,  and  anchored  in  that  sweet  belief 
1351 


that  some  kind  power  has  us  in  keeping  — 
ever  ripening  on  and  on  to  some  glad  end. 

Shall  I  tell  you  how  it  seems  to  me  you 
are?  —  or  rather  how  I  like  to  fancy  it? 
Well,  you're  the  little  girl  I  read  of  in  a  poem 
the  other  day;  she  was  alone  —  so  all  alone, 
the  world  grew  as  a  blank  to  her ;  for,  in  a 
dream,  she  dwelt  among  loved  unlovely 
things,  and  yet  "She  dared  not  stay  —  she 
dared  not  go,"  until  at  last  "beneath  her 
feet  a  satin  floor  of  white  and  blush  and 
crimson  roses  sprung  —  and  on  this  bridge 
of  bloom  she  ran  and  sung,  —  and  so  came 
unto  the  South  — 

And  there  she  sleeps  within  a  folded  rose, 
Dreaming  there  is  a  power  rocking  the  stem 
That  sees  all  helpless  souls  and  mothers 

them." 

And  that's  the  way  I  shall  picture  you  in 
preference  to  thinking  of  bleak  hillsides,  and 
a  gaunt  old  house,  perched  all  alone  there, 
with  great  staring  windows,  glaring  ever 
and  in  vain  for  something  animate,  forgetful 
even  of  the  sad-eyed  girl  that  sits  within 
bent  ever  over  her  needlework,  and  — 

"Shaping  from  her  bitter  thought 
Heartsease  and  forgetmenot" 

[36] 


O,  you  should  see  what  I  endure!  When 
at  home  (my  home  is  like  yours,  as  I  guess, 
in  one  respect,  —  the  mother  isn't  there) — 
when  at  home  I  live  mechanically,  much 
like  the  house-plants  —  not  so  obtrusive 
perhaps,  but  quite  as  silent.  I  never  speak, 
only  to  ask  for  more  sugar  for  my  coffee,  or 
to  say,  "Fm  too  busy  to  waste  time  at  the 
wood-pile  —  I'll  send  a  boy"  (for  I've  a 
step-mother,  by  the  way,  whose  chief  de 
light  is  in  rasping  matter-o'-fact  ideas  over 
my  aesthetic  sensibilities) .  * ' What  is  home 
without  a  (step)  Mother!"  Give  it  up.  So 
I  stay  here  in  my  down-town  room  curled 
up  like  a  wooley-worm,  and  when  at  work, 
quite  happy  in  spite  of  Fate,  Misfortune, 
etc.,  etc. 

My  time  is  most  delightfully  diversified 
however,  by  occasional  calls  from  different 
parts  of  the  state  to  lecture,  and  since  I've 
made  this  confession,  I  must  admit  that  I've 
as  strong  an  ambition  in  that  peculiar  field 
as  in  literature.  Glad,  too,  to  be  able  to  say 
that  I'm  succeeding  there  beyond  even  my 
vainest  expectations  —  but  I'm  running  on 
beyond  the  limits  of  my  time,  or  your 
[37] 


interest,  I  am  sure.  You  will  write  me,  — 
will  you?  —  at  your  very  earliest  conveni 
ence.  I  like  your  letters,  and  shall  await 
the  next  with  more  impatience  than  the  last 
even,  if  such  a  thing  could  be  possible. 

I  earnestly  hope  the  acquaintance  begun 
under  such  peculiar  and  harassing  circum 
stances  will  eventuate,  after  all,  as  happily 
as  I  desire,  for  in  that  instance  the  world 
will  have  in  us  the  noblest  artist,  and  the 
gladdest  poet  that  ever  twanged  a  string. 

Very  truly  yours, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

Greenfield,  Ind., 

March  15,  1879. 
Dear  friend :  — 

Yes,  I  meant  "Wemmick"*  and  "The 
Aged,"  and  I'm  glad  to  get  your  good  letter 
—  for  I've  been  from  home  for  a  week  or 
two,  and  am  tired  —  tired  —  tired ;  and 
your  letter  is  the  one  oasis  of  that  pilgrim 
age.  Your  picture  of  home  is  not  at  all 
unlovely  —  I  like  it,  and  I  envy  your  great 

"Instead  of  "Mr.  Twomeleys"  in  Great  Expectations.     See 
postscript  to  letter  of  February  21st. 

[38] 


depth  of  tranquility  and  rest.  It's  like  a 
prayer  —  hushed,  holy  and  so  full  of  gra 
cious  peace  I  feel  like  kneeling  as  I  read. 

Your  letters  do  me  good  —  they  are  so 
different  from  my  flighty  "Crinkum-crank- 
ums"  —  they  seem  like —  like  a  deserved 
yet  unintentional  rebuke,  and  so  I  welcome 
them  most  warmly. 

I  have  a  fear,  however,  that  will  haunt  me, 
i.e.,  that  I  am  simply  an  intrusion  on  your 
better  time.  Forgive  me  if  I  am,  for  know 
ingly  I  would  not  vex  you,  and  am  "more 
glad  than  words  can  say"  that  you  have 
pardoned  me  for  so  unwittingly  occasioning 
you  the  "sleepless  hours"  you  speak  of  over 
the  publication  of  the  lines  "To  a  Poet"  — 
which,  by  the  way,  is  still  of  interest  to  me, 
and  in  your  next  will  you  tell  me,  please,  the 
real  author? 

All  comment  regarding  it  has  died  away, 
and  there  will  be  no  further  comment,  rest 
assured. 

I  take  the  liberty  of  sending  you  by  this 
mail  an  old  poem  of  mine  that  was  the  occa 
sion  of  more  worry  to  me  than  ever  could 
have  been  your  "Palace  of  Pearl  and  Fire." 

1391 


Perhaps  you  may  have  heard  something  of 
it,  yet  fearful  you  have  not,  and  desiring 
that  you  may  fully  understand  it,  I  will 
briefly  outline  its  history. 

About  two  years  ago,  in  conversation  with 
a  friend,  I  ventured  the  assertion  that 
poetry,  to  be  popular,  didn't  require  positive 
worth ;  if  it  were  the  production  of  an  author 
known  to  fame,  that  of  itself  was  sufficient 
to  insure  its  success.  My  friend  took  the 
opposite  ground  and  argued  so  positively 
against  my  theory,  that  I  determined  to  con 
vince  [him]  of  his  error  if  in  any  way  pos 
sible;  and  beating  about  for  a  means  of 
proof,  I  hit  upon  the  idea  of  vaguely  imitat 
ing  some  dead  author,  and  then  fabricating 
a  story  to  correspond  with  the  supposed  dis 
covery  of  "his"  poem,  lay  them  both  before 
the  public.  This  project  I  perfected  and 
carried  out,  selecting  Poe*  as  the  helpless 
victim  of  my  heinous  design.  The  poem, 
"Leonainie"  was  the  result,  and  it  is  not 
vanity  in  me  to  say  that  the  ruse  worked  so 
successfully  scarcely  a  journal  within  the 

*By  a  singular  coincidence,  Poe  died  on  the  same  day 
that  Riley  was  born. 

140] 


boundaries  of  the  United  States  failed  to 
reproduce  it.  Among  the  more  notable, 
William  Cullen  Bryant's  "Saturday  Post," 
while  Poe's  latest,  and,  I  guess,  best,  biog 
rapher,  Wm.  F.  Gill,  of  Boston,  wrote  for 
the  "orig."  MS.  copy  which  we  (the  editor 
who  gave  it  first  to  the  public,  and  myself) 
claimed  was  in  our  possession.  —  This  lat 
ter  fact  occasioning  the  expose  of  our  fraud, 
for  it  had  grown  serious,  you  see,  and  we 
were  in  a  manner  forced  to  come  to  the  sur 
face,  or  a-la  "Truthful  James,"  "rise  and 
explain."  This  we  did,  but  as  the  grand 
majority  had  bitten  at  the  tempting  literary 
morsel  of  deceit,  the  irate  press  "went  for 
us  then  and  thar,"  and  for  your  humble  serv 
ant  with  an  especial  intensity  of  vitupera 
tion  and  exhaustless  abuse ;  and  it  was  some 
months  before  I  dared  cheep  a  line  of  poetry 
without  being  reviled  beyond  measure.  I 
can  smile  over  it  now,  but  then  it  was  really 
very,  very  serious. 

Well,  this  poem  has  been  set  to  music 
(by  some  fiend  evidently  who  desires  to 
perpetuate  that  unholy  fraud  of  mine)  and 
I  have  just  received  a  copy  of  it  and  send  it, 

[41] 


hoping,  after  all,  it  will  prove  a  passing 
pleasure  to  you,  dear  friend.  I  regret  to 
note,  however,  that  one  verse  of  the  poem 
has  been  omitted  in  the  musical  arrange 
ment,  as  it  makes  still  more  obscure  the 
real  meaning  of  the  poem.* 

Trusting  you  will  still  continue  to  favor 

me,  as  your  time  and  pleasure  may  allow, 

and  hoping,  too,  that  you  will  recognize  the 

real  interest  I  find  in  your  good  letters,  I  am, 

Truly  and  gratefully 

Your  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

LEONAINIE 

Leonainie —  Angels  named  her; 

And  they  took  the  light 
Of  the  laughing  stars  and  framed  her 
In  a  smile  of  white ; 
And  they  made  her  hair  of  gloomy 
Midnight,  and  her  eyes  of  bloomy 
Moonshine,  and  they  brought  her  to  me 
In  the  solemn  night. 

In  a  solemn  night  of  summer, 
When  my  heart  of  gloom 

*The  poem,  including  the  missing  stanza,  is  given  on  this 
and  the  next  page. 

[421 


Blossomed  up  to  greet  the  comer 
Like  a  rose  in  bloom; 

All  forebodings  that  distressed  me 

I  forgot  as  joy  caressed  me  — 

(Lying  joy!  that  caught  and  pressed  me 

In  the  arms  of  doom!) 

Only  spake  the  little  lisper 

In  the  Angel-tongue ; 
Yet  I,  listening,  heard  her  whisper,  — 
"Songs  are  only  sung 
Here  below  that  they  may  grieve  you,  — 
Tales  but  told  you  to  deceive  you,  — 
So  must  Leonainie  leave  you 
While  her  love  is  young." 

Then  God  smiled  and  it  was  morning, 

Matchless  and  supreme, 
Heaven's  glory  seemed  adorning 
Earth  with  its  esteem; 

Every  heart  but  mine  seemed  gifted 
With  the  voice  of  prayer,  and  lifted 
Where  my  Leonainie  drifted 
From  me  like  a  dream. 

Greenfield,  Ind., 

April  11,  1879. 
Miss  Kahle  — 

Dear  friend :  — 

More  than  a  month  has  flashed  away 
since  the  receipt  of  your  last  letter.    I  would 
have  written  long  ere  this,  but  for  the  gentle 
[431 


intimation  that  I  need  display  no  prompt 
ness  at  all  —  which  meant,  I  sadly,  sadly 
fear,  that  my  letters  are  of  value  the  most 
nominal  in  your  esteem  —  Ho !  ho !  But 
you  shall  not  find  me  so  easily  eluded.  I 
will  bide  my  time.  I  will  '  'possess  my  soul 
in  patience."  I  will  hide  me  low  adown 
among  the  dim,  dark  shadows  of  your  life, 
and  as  you  journey  on,  forgetful  of  all  else 
but  art  and  fame,  I  will  leap  up  before  you 
like  some  monstrously-distorted  " Jack-in- 
the-box,"  and  I  will  chortle  with  uncanny 
glee, —  "Ho!  ho!  All  things  come  round 
to  him  who  will  but  wait!" 

But  we  are  good  friends,  "ain't  us"?  as 
Joe  Gasgery  would  say.  And  your  letters, 
drifting  out  of  the  unknown  and  eddying 
about  me  in  this  far-off  land,  come  to  me 
like  truant  whiffs  of  perfume  from  en 
chanted  vales.  There!  how's  that?  —  but 
I  mean  it  —  every  word,  and  more,  too — 
for  the  world  I  know  and  deal  with  is  a 
wrangling,  jangling,  slip-shod  old  concern 
that  rattles  as  it  rolls  along  the  road  of  Time, 
and  the  noise  of  it  sinks  low  and  dies  away, 
and  I  am  soothed  and  thankful  when  your 

[44] 


letters  come.  You  are  very  good  to  me, 
and  you  must  know  that  I  appreciate  and 
like  you  better  every  woman's-word  you 
write. 

And  you're  at  work  again.  Is  there  any 
thing  better  than  work?  I  have  never  found 
[it].  Sometimes  I  lose  the  way  of  it,  and 
grow  idle  —  then  morose  and  sullen,  dis 
agreeable  —  and  at  last  most  wretchedly 
unhappy.  I  am  very  busy  now,  and  very 
happy.  I  am  always  happy  when  at  work, 
and  never  wholly  so  even  when  necessarily 
idle  —  no,  not  even  when  I  dance,  laugh, 
sing  or  anything.  —  "For  fear  ye  die  to 
morrow  let  today  pass  by  flower-crowned 
and  singing,"  is  advice  I  never  could  accept, 
—  for  if  I  knew  I  would  die  tomorrow  I 
would  occupy  the  day  preceding  that  very 
notable  event  in  labor  —  not  in  laughs. 

I  did  mean  "Wemmick"  in  Great  Ex 
pectations,  and  your  correction,  together 
with  the  home  scenes  as  they  actually  exist, 
I  enjoyed  beyond  measure.  You  say  you 
cannot  write.  I  say  you  can;  and  I  know; 
for  I've  been  an  editor  —  think  of  that! 
And  when  you  write  again,  you  must  tell  me 

[451 


more  and  more  of  home,  your  father,  your 
work,  everything. 

And  sometime  I  want  you  —  for  my  sake, 
since  you  declare  yourself  my  friend  —  to 
write  a  poem.  You  can,  and  you  must.  I 
shall  accept  no  excuse. 

Just  now  I'm  a  raving  lunatic  on  the  son 
net  topic.  Here  is  one  of  Christina  Ros- 
setti's.  To  use  her  own  chaste  words,  "And 
very  sweet  it  is :  — " 

AFTER  DEATH* 

"The  curtains  were  half  drawn,  the  floor  was 
swept 

And  strewn  with  rushes ;  rosemary  and  may 

Lay  thick  upon  the  bed  on  which  I  lay, 
Where  through  the  lattice  ivy-shadows  crept. 
He  leaned  above  me,  thinking  that  I  slept 

And  could  not  hear  him;  but  I  heard  him  say 

"Poor  child!  poor  child!"  and  as  he  turned 

away 
Came  a  deep  silence,  and  I  knew  he  wept. 

He  did  not  touch  the  shroud,  or  raise  the  fold 
That  hid  my  face,  or  take  my  hand  in  his, 

Or  ruffle  the  smooth  pillows  for  my  head. 

He  did  not  love  me  living ;  but  once  dead 
He  pitied  me,  and  very  sweet  it  is 

To  know  he  still  is  warm  though  I  am  cold." 

*This  sonnet  and  the  one  following  appear  in  the  body  of 
the  letter,  in  Riley's  handwriting. 

[461 


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And  here's  one  by  your  modest  friend  — 
not  by  any  means  so  excellent  as  the  one 
just  quoted,  but  he  wrote  it,  and  he  wants 
you  to  read  it. 

JUNE 

0  queenly  month  of  indolent  repose! 

I  drink  thy  breath  in  sips  of  rare  perfume, 
As  in  thy  downy  lap  of  clover-bloom 

1  nestle  like  a  drowsy  child,  and  doze 
The  lazy  hours  away.    The  zephyr  throws 

The  shifting  shuttle  of  the  Summer's  loom, 

And  weaves  a  damask-work  of  gleam  and 

gloom 

Before  thy  listless  feet;  The  lily  blows 
A  bugle-call  of  fragrance  o'er  the  glade, 

And,  wheeling  into  ranks  with  plume  and 

spear, 
Thy  harvest-armies  gather  on  parade ; 

While  faint  and  far  away,  yet  pure  and  clear, 
A  voice  calls  out  of  alien  lands  of  shade,  - 

"All  hail  the  peerless  goddess  of  the  year!" 

I  will  also  enclose  with  this  a  recent  sketch 
in  prose.*  Nothing  ambitious  —  nothing 
vigorous.  You  would  term  it  —  and  I 

*  "The  prose  mentioned  in  the  next  to  last  paragraph  of 
letter  of  April  llth,  1879,  I  did  not  consider  of  any  conse 
quence,  for  I  do  not  recall  it  and  it  is  not  at  this  date  in  my 
possession,  nor  do  I  know  of  its  whereabouts."  —  Signed 
statement  by  Elizabeth  Brunn,  nee  Kahle. 

[471 


would  be  greatly  pleased  if  you  did —  "A 
quiet  bit  of  color"  —  nothing  more. 

And  now,  when  may  I  hope  to  hear  from 
you  again?  Write  me  when  you  can  —  if 
at  once,  I  shall  be  all  the  more  delighted, 
but  if  not,  I  will  conform  my  desire  with 
your  own  good  time,  and  remain  as  faith 
fully  yours  as  now. 

Truly  your  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 


Greenfield,  Ind., 

May  6,  1879. 
My  dear  friend :  — 

First,  I  must  tell  you  truthfully  that  it  has 
not  been  through  neglect  that  I  have  not 
written  in  answer  to  your  last  good  letter 
sooner.  (And  your  last  letter  is  "  better, 
better,  better  than  anything  on  earth"  — 
only  the  quotation  proper  is  "sweeter, 
sweeter,  sweeter"  —  but  I'm  afraid  to  say 
that,  having  never,  but  in  fancy,  seen  your 
woman-face,  or  caught  and  wrung  your  two 
kind  hands.) 

[48] 


I  need  not  enter  into  any  detail  as  to 
reason  of  my  silence,  and  yet  I  do  want  you 
to  know  that  I  have  been  worried,  fretted, 
vexed,  and  "wooled"  around  the  last  few 
weeks  most  pitilessly.  Business  for  one 
thing  —  what  little  business  I  have  to  em 
ploy  my  mind  —  has  been  slowly  slipping 
and  sliding  beyond  my  reach,  though  by  an 
almost  superhuman  effort  Fve  enough  left 
to  fatten  my  ambition  in  that  line  —  for  if 
I  might  have  my  way  I'd  have  nothing  to  do 
with  matter-of-fact  affairs  in  any  way. 

You've  heard  of  Job's  Turkey,  of  course 
(wonder  if  it  was  a  Thanksgiving  Turkey!). 
Well,  in  a  financial  aspect,  I  am  left  about 
as  poor  as  that  —  only  I'm  a  very  patient 
and  contented  fowl,  and  so  long  as  I'm  not 
too  poor  to  "gobble"  I  shall  count  myself 
extremely  opulent.  At  least  I  shall  say  so, 
and  how  are  you  to  know,  so  far  away,  but 
that  I'm  just  as  happy  as  I  profess  to  be ! 

The  reference  to  your  brother  —  his  leav 
ing  you  for  the  world  —  his  return  home, 
and  then  his  death  —  told  me  that  you  had, 
and  have,  a  brave,  good  heart,  and  made  me 
like  you  even  better  than  before.  For  even 

[491 


now  as  I  write,  a  brother  —  older  than  my 
self —  is  lying  very  seriously  ill.  This  is 
one  of  my  present  troubles.  John  is  his 
name,  mine's  Jim.  My  life  has  been  just 
what  the  name  suggests;  John's  life  has 
been  only  good.  He  always  had  his  lessons 
at  school,  and  was  never  whipped  either 
by  the  teacher  or  father  —  while  /  —  why, 
I  went  about  with  welts  running  over  and 
around  me,  like  a  rhinoceros'  hide.  O  I 
was  a  calloused  little  wretch,  both  outward 
ly  and  in,  and  was  never  so  happy  as  when 
breaking  rules. 

But  John  was  good,  and  is  good,  and 
though  you  say  you  like  bad  boys  best,  you 
couldn't  help  loving  John,  for  he  wasn't  the 
insipid  good  little  boy  of  the  Sunday-school 
books.  Besides,  you  must  like  him,  be 
cause  if  it  hadn't  been  for  John  I'd  never 
have  been  fit  to  write  one  word  to  you,  or 
any  one  so  good,  nor  would  any  one  have 
cared  to  hear  from  one  so  low  —  so  lost. 
And  if  John  should  die  there  would  be  no 
one  left  whose  praise  could  be  quite  so  much 
as  his  is  to  me.  He  praises  every  line  that 
has  a  moral  worth,  and  every  sentiment  that 
[501 


speaks  out  for  the  poor.  John  was  the  first 
to  believe  in  me,  and  if  he  lives  I  know  I 
will  be  better  every  day.  I  am  selfish  — 
very  selfish  —  but  I  would  rather  die  here 
at  these  words  than  to  know  that  he  had 
left  me. 

The  world  is  such  a  great  wide  ache  of 
emptiness  without  some  one  you  know  is 
wholly  true,  and  though  one  writes  and 
writes  till  all  who  read  applaud,  how  much 
more  lovable  is  he  who  teaches  us  "how 
better  'tis  to  be  the  poem  than  write  it 
down."  I  don't  know  anything  of  a  here 
after,  but  when  I  die  I  want  to  go  to —  John, 
if  he  goes  first,  and  I  pray  he  may  not. 

I  was  glad  to  hear  you  say,  "you  didn't 
want  to  be  let  alone."  I  think  I  heard  your 
voice  in  that  sentence.  You  like  me,  don't 
you?  It  makes  me  very  happy  thinking  so 
anyhow,  and  I  do  think  so,  and  even  if  you'd 
say  you  didn't,  I  doubt  if  I'd  believe  you,  so 
there,  now  —  here's  a  quandary  of  some 
kind!  What's  to  be  done?  Tell  you  what: 
I'll  steal  in  upon  you  as  in  fancy  I  see  you 
reading  this,  and  even  as  you  said,  "lay  a 
gentle  hand  upon  your  shoulder,"  saying  — 
[511 


"forgive  me!"  Do  you  hear?  and  do  you 
lift  your  eyes  up  to  my  own?  and  do  you 
smile?  —  Then  I  am  forgiven  —  and  so  I 
stand  here  by  your  side,  tranced  in  some 
strange  silence  that  lays  a  viewless  finger* 
on  my  pencil  now,  and  talks  on  in  my  stead. 

I  do  wonder  if  you  would  like  me  if  you 
could  know  and  see  me  as  I  am.  I'd  like 
you  to,  of  course,  but  would  be  almost  fear 
ful  of  the  test.  But  I'll  tell  you  frankly 
what  I  will  do,  if  you'll  take  an  equal  risk; 
I'll  send  you  my —  (I  won't  say  "photo," 
as  the  "Wills"  and  "Harries"  do,  please 
mark)  picture  —  if  —  you'll  —  let  me.  (I 
try  to  say  this  very  humbly,  very  bad-boy- 
ishly,  yet  after  all  I  want  you  to  know  that 
I  say  it  far  more  earnestly  than  any  other 
way,  and  you  will  understand  me  rightly  I 
am  sure  and  answer  in  your  next.) 

And  how  do  you  progress  with  your  work? 
I  can't  say  I  am  waiting  patiently  for  that 
landscape  you  promised  me  so  long  ago; 
but  I  am  waiting  —  waiting.  Will  it  ever 
come,  and  when? 

*Riley  afterwards  incorporated  this  same  thought  in  the 
fifth  stanza  of  the  New  Year's  Greeting  poem,  facsimile  of 
which  appears  in  the  front  of  this  volume.  —  ED. 

152] 


O  yes!  —  I  am  quite  well  acquainted  with 
the  author  of  the  little  poem  "Unwritten" 
which  you  sent  me  in  your  last.  It  is  Mrs. 
D.  M.  Jordan,  of  Richmond,  Ind.  I  have 
visited  at  her  home  two  or  three  times.  I 
see  her  quite  often.  She  is  an  editor  as  well 
as  a  poet,  and  a  most  lovable  woman.  She 
is  a  woman  of  wonderful  magnetism,  and  it 
is  music  to  hear  her  talk.  Is  married,  and 
has  two  grown  children;  one,  a  daughter, 
quite  recently  wedded  to  some  lucky  dog 
whose  happiness  I  trust  will  follow  him  for 
ever  and  forever!  I  want  to  tell  you  all 
about  Mrs.  Jordan,  for  she  is  my  very  best 
friend  —  but  I  haven't  time,  and  perhaps 
you  wouldn't  care  to  listen  anyhow,  but  I 
will  quote  something  from  a  newspaper 
letter  written  years  ago,  when  I  first  met 
her.  It  is  here  in  my  scrap  book :  — 

"And  now  let  me  leave  a  good  taste  hi 
your  mouth  by  telling  you  of  my  visit  to 
Mrs.  Jordan,  that  charming  child  of  Song 
whose  melody  ripples  around  the  happy 
world.  There's  a  woman  everybody  likes 
at  first  sight.  She  meets  you  with  a  glad 
face  that  only  blossoms  warmer  as  you  know 
[53] 


her  better.  She  takes  your  hand  and 
shakes  it  —  no  dainty  affectation  of  cold 
finger-tips. 

"She  is  what  the  English  would  call  'a 
trifle  stout'  in  stature;  but  her  bearing  is 
both  graceful  and  majestic.  She  has  a  way 
of  growing  in  height  at  certain  utterances 
that  makes  her  manner  extremely  fascinat 
ing.  Her  eyes  are  capable  of  great  expres 
sion  —  particularly  of  the  tenderer  emo 
tions.  So  marked  is  this,  in  fact,  that  at 
the  reading  of  any  tender  verse  her  eyes  will 
moisten,  and  her  rich  voice  fail  and  falter. 
I  had  the  rare  good  fortune  to  listen  to  her 
latest  poem,  which  she  laughingly  called  'a 
bit  of  jingle,'  but  if  I  might  venture  an 
opinion,  I  would  call  it  a  grand  poem. 

"I  met  her  daughter  also — a  bright  little 
woman  of  eighteen,  with  all  the  mother's 
qualities  but  the  poetry.  She  is  quite  hand 
some,  with  bright  eyes  that  flash  an  extra 
brilliance  through  a  pair  of  funny  'specs,1 
surmounting  a  nose  'Tip-tilted  like  the  petal 
of  a  flower.'  " 

So  much  for  my  dear  friend  Mrs.  J.  That 
last  clause  was  inserted  for  a  purpose,  which 

[54] 


of  course  failed  —  for  have  I  not  told  you 
that  she's  went  and  gone  and  got  married 
to  another  fellow?  and  the  sigh  I  breathe 
here  would  inflate  a  hot-air  balloon.  But 
there !  forgive  me  again. 

When  you  write,  tell  me  more  about  your 
self.  Do  as  I  do,  —  talk  of  nothing  but 
yourself.  I  seem  to  know  you  better  from 
your  last  letter,  but  you're  always  saying  or 
intimating  that  your  ways  and  your  capabili 
ties  and  your  efforts  and  all  are  sorto' 
secondary;  and  always  putting  yourself  in 
the  background,  —  and  I'm  going  to  take 
your  part,  and  tell  you  that  you  shant  talk 
that  way  any  more,  for  I  know  you  are  bet 
ter  than  you  try  to  have  me  think,  and  am 
too  true  a  friend  to  submit  to  such  innuen 
does  without  coming  to  your  assistance  as  I 
now  do  hi  this  way. 

When  will  you  write?  Write  just  as  soon 
as  you  can,  and  next  time  I'll  answer  with 
more  promptness  —  nothing  shall  prevent 
me. 

Yours  very  truly, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

[551 


Greenfield,  Ind., 

May  16,  1879. 
Miss  Lizzie  Kahle — 
Dear  friend :  — 

Some  days  ago  I  said  I  would  send  you 
my  latest  sketch.*  I  enclose  it  to  you  now; 
also  —  if  you  will  pardon  the  vanity  — 
notices  of  my  recent  debut  as  a  reader  in 
our  capitol  city,  Indianapolis.  The  latter 
I  ask  you  to  kindly  return  —  the  former  I 
trust  you  will  like  so  well  you  will  embalm 
it  in  your  scrap  book  for  the  sake  of 

Your  true  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

In  the  meantime,  if  your  letter  doesn't 
shortly  arrive  I'll  be  crazier  than  the  sketch 
I  send  you  indicates. 


*"The  'sketch'  referred  to  in  letter  of  May  16th,  as  being 
enclosed,  was  a  prose  sketch  entitled  The  Tale  of  a  Spider. 
It  was  not  interesting  and  I  considered  it  of  no  literary  worth, 
so  did  not  preserve  it."  —  Signed  statement  by  Elizabeth 
Brunn,  nee  Kahle. 

[561 


Greenfield,  Ind., 

June  10,  1879. 
Miss  Lizzie  Kahle — 
Dear  friend :  — 

I  am  not  so  prompt  in  my  reply  to  your 
last  good  letter  as  I  could  have  been,  and 
wanted  to  be ;  but  you  will  pardon  the  delay 
when  I  tell  you  the  anxiety  occasioned  by 
my  brother's  long  and  still  dangerous  ill 
ness,  together  with  a  complication  of  other 
trials,  has  kept  me  silent  with  an  aching 
hope  that  some  brighter  time  than  this  would 
dawn  upon  my  needs  and  my  desires. 

I  think  I  must  be  a  very  disagreeable  sort 
o'  wretch  about  now.  There  is  a  lull  about 
the  house  when  I  go  home,  and  the  old  dog 
lying  on  the  doorstep,  with  his  nose  leveled 
townward  over  his  two  paws,  always  leaps 
up  when  I  reach  the  gate,  and  vanishes 
around  the  corner.  He  knows  who's  com 
ing.  —  He's  heard  some  one  reading  in  the 
papers  about  something  having  "cast  a 
gloom  over  the  entire  community,"  and  he 
thinks  it's  me,  I've  no  doubt. 

I  wonder  if  you  are  quite  as  lonesome  as 
I  am.    I  think  not  —  I  hope  not  —  I  pray 
[571 


that  you  are  not.  I  half  wish  that  I  were  a 
dog  that  I  might  crawl  away  under  the 
sleepers  of  some  old  deserted  house,  and 
howl  —  and  howl.  I  can't  express  my 
feelings  with  any  degree  of  elegance  —  fine 
figure  wouldn't  fit  'em,  and  it's  the  veriest 
selfishness  in  me  to  prance  'em  out  in  public 
anyhow.  Guess  I'll  drive  'em  back,  and 
fling  old  Fate  smile  for  smile. 

I  was  down  to  the  city  last  week  and  went 
skippety-hop  to  the  picture  shop  to  get  my 
picture  taken,  and  when  I  got  there  I  sat 
down  in  a  chair,  and  looked  sad  and  for 
saken.  There!  that  fact's  embalmed  for 
immortality  —  for  it  is  a  fact  that  in  sitting 
for  a  picture  the  human  face  assumes  its 
saddest  and  most  hopeless  expression.  As 
yet  I  haven't  the  result  of  my  last  venture, 
but  you  may  prepare  for  the  worst,  for  I 
know  the  smile  I  tried  to  wear  will  look 
positively  bleak  —  and  I'm  not  what  the 
world  would  call  handsome  even  at  my  best; 
and  there  never  was  but  one  girl  ever  told 
me  so,  and  her  face  was  a  perfect  constella 
tion  of  freckles,  to  say  nothing  of  the  masta- 
donian  proportions  of  her  hands  and  feet. 
(581 


You  see  I  can't  write  pleasantly  —  there 
is  nothing  healthful  in  my  mental  composi 
tion  and  I  am  powerless  to  affect  a  lightness 
and  gaiety  which  I  do  not  feel.  You  will 
forgive  me.  You  are  good,  and  you  will 
understand.  I  want  you  to  write  me  a 
better  letter  than  I  deserve  for  this  nothing 
ness. 

Sometimes  I  write  dialectic  poems  and 
publish  them  anonymously  or  under  noms 
de  plume.  I  will  send  you  two  or  three,* 
but  will  have  to  copy  some.  They  at  least 
will  be  more  pleasure  to  you  than  the  poor 
juiceless  lines  I  have  written  here. 

Truly  your  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

OLD-FASHIONED  ROSES 

They  aint  no  style  about  'em, 

And  they're  sorto  pale  and  faded, 
Yit  the  doorway  here  without  'em 

*Only  one  of  these  copies  of  his  "dialectic  poems"  seems 
to  have  survived  in  the  correspondence,  —  the  one  entitled 
"Old  Fashioned  Roses."  It  is  printed  herein,  followed  by 
the  author's  Note,  written  on  the  back  of  the  sheet  on 
which  he  copied  it  in  his  own  handwriting.  The  text  differs 
slightly  from  the  printed  versions. 

[591 


Would  be  lonesomer  and  shaded 
With  a  good-'eal  blacker  shadder 

Than  the  mornin'-glories  makes, 
And  the  sunshine  would  look  sadder 

For  their  good  old-fashion'  sakes. 

I  like  'em  'cause  they  kindo 

Sorto  make  a  feller  like  'em, — 
And  I'll  tell  you,  when  I  find  a 

Bunch  out  whur  the  sun  can  strike  'em, 
It  allus  sets  me  thinkin' 

O'  the  ones  that  used  to  grow 
And  peek  in  thru  the  chinkin' 
O'  the  cabin,  don't  you  know. 

And  then  I  think  o'  Mother, 

And  how  she  used  to  love  'em 
When  they  wasn't  any  other, 

'Less  she  found  'em  up  above  'em, — 
And  her  eyes,  afore  she  shut  'em, 

Whispered  with  a  smile  and  said 
We  must  pick  a  bunch  and  put  'em 
In  her  hands  when  she  was  dead. 

But  as  I  was  a-sayin', — 

They  aint  no  style  about  'em — 
Very  gaudy  or  displayin' — 
Yit  I  wouldn't  be  without  'em, 
'Cause  I'm  happier  in  these  posies 

And  the  hollyhawks  and  sich, 
Than  the  humin'-bird  that  noses 
the  rich. 

J.  W.  RlLEY 

601 


Note.  —  Not  knowing,  of  course,  that 
you  are  familiar  with,  or  will  appreciate,  the 
Hoosier  dialect,  I  would  say,  both  in  justice 
to  my  fellow-Hoosiers  and  myself,  that  the 
two  poems  within  are  very  careful,  and  I 
think,  accurate  studies,  not  only  of  dialect 
but  character  as  well,  —  for,  to  aptly  and 
truthfully  apply  the  idiom,  —  " We're  as 
meller  a  hearted  set  o'  folks  as  you  ever  laid 
eyes  on!" 

J.  W.  R. 


Greenfield,  Ind., 
July  13,  1879. 

My  dear  friend :  — 

I  suspect  that  by  this  time  both  your  con 
fidence  in  me,  and  your  patience  are  almost 
exhausted.  I  will  not  worry  you  with  long 
excuses  for  my  long  silence,  but  say  simply 
I  have  been  disappointed  many  ways,  and 
so  kept  from  many  things  I  desired  to  do  — 
foremost  of  which  a  letter  to  your  own  good 
self.  I  merely  scrawl  this  page  now  —  not 
as  a  letter,  but  as  an  assurance  of  my  warm 

[61] 


remembrance  of  you.  There's  an  old  love- 
song  from  the  Japanese,  the  quaint  burthen 
of  which  is  — 

"7  have  forgotten  to  forget  —  " 

Well  that  is  my  sentiment,  believe  me. 

The  main  reason  of  my  silence,  however, 
has  been  that  I  couldn't  enclose  the  picture 
when  I  did  write  —  for  it  was  simply  hor 
rible!  !  —  and  I'm  going  into  the  city  to 
morrow  to  "try,  try  again."  So  I  write  this 
merely  to  assure  you  that  I  intend  writing 
you  in  a  week  at  farthest,  and  to  ask  you 
to  forgive  me  for  my  apparent  neglect  of 
your  last  best  of  all  letters. 

And  O  yes!  —  I  mustn't  forget  to  tell 
you  that  my  dialectic  poems,  under  the 
name  of  "Walker"  are  creating  some  com 
ment  through  the  press  both  East  and  West 
and  I  enclose  a  clipping,  hoping  for  a  con 
gratulatory  smile  from  you;  also  a  poetical 
corner  —  a  recent  feature  of  the  Indianap 
olis  Herald  —  which  I  am  glad  to  say  is 
proving  most  successful.  They  are  odd 
jingles  mainly,  though  occasionally  I  think 
a  more  than  average  stanza  escapes  my 

f62l 


careless  pen.  I  am  almost  sure  you  will 
like  "Mirage,"  for  I  thought  of  you  every 
line  as  I  wrote. 

And  now  God  bless  you,  and  forgive  me, 
and  I  will  soon  send  you  the  letter  you 
deserve. 

Ever  your  true  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

MIRAGE 

I 

An  alien  wind  that  blew  and  blew 

Over  the  fields  where  the  ripe  grain  grew, 

Sending  ripples  of  shine  and  shade 

That  crept  and  crouched  at  her  feet  and  played. 

The  sea-like  summer  washed  the  moss 
Till  the  sun-drenched  lilies  hung  like  floss, 

Draping  the  throne  of  green  and  gold 
That  lulled  her  there  like  a  queen  of  old. 

n 

Was  it  the  hum  of  a  bumble  bee, 
Or  the  long-hushed  bugle  eerily 

Winding  a  call  to  the  daring  Prince 
Lost  in  the  wood  long  ages  since? — 

[631 


A  dim  old  wood,  with  palace  rare 
Hidden  away  in  its  depths  somewhere! 

Was  it  the  Princess,  tranced  in  sleep, 
Awaiting  her  lover's  touch  to  leap 

Into  the  arms  that  bent  above? — 

To  thaw  his  heart  with  a  breath  of  love— 

And  cloy  his  lips,  through  her  waking  tears, 
With  the  dead-ripe  kiss  of  a  hundred  years  I 


m 

An  alien  wind  that  blew  and  blew, — 
I  had  blurred  my  eyes  as  the  artists  do, 

Coaxing  life  to  a  half-sketched  face, 
Or  dreaming  bloom  for  a  grassy  place. 

The  bee  droned  on  in  an  undertone, 
And  a  shadow-bird  trailed  all  alone 

Across  the  wheat,  while  a  liquid  cry 
Dripped  from  above,  as  it  went  by. 

What  to  her  was  the  far-off  whirr 
Of  the  quail's  quick  wing  or  the  chipmunk's 
chirr?— 

What  to  her  was  the  shade  that  slid 
Over  the  hill  where  the  reapers  hid?— 

Or  what  the  hunter,  with  one  foot  raised, 
As  he  turned  to  go—  yet,  pausing,  gazed? 

[641 


V*~H.     '/( 


At 

^71-tv,    7^-*  .-  t 

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J  f  ---  ^     e 

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,    ,(  u^Mi.  --  • 


f, 


.,_., 


— And  here's  a  laddie  from  the  Highlands 
—  if  you  like  Scotch  —  butterscotch.  — 

THE  LITTLE  TINY  KICKSHAW* 

" — And  any  pretty  little  tiny  kickshaws." 

—  SHAKESPEARE 

O  the  little  tiny  kickshaw  that  Mither  sent  to  me! 

'Tis  sweeter  than  the  sugar-plum  that  reepens 
on  the  tree, 

Wi'  dainty  flaverin's  o'  spice,  and  musky  rose- 
marie, 

The  little  tiny  kickshaw  that  Mither  sent  to  me. 

'Tis  lu[s]cious  wi'  the  stalen  tang  o'  fruits  frae 

o'er  the  sea, 
And   e'en  its  fragrance   gars  me  laugh  wi' 

langin'  lip  and  ee 
Till  a'  its  frazen  sheen  o'  white  maun  melten 

honey  be, 
Sae  weel  I  lo'e  the  kickshaw  that  Mither  sent 

to  me. 

O  I  lo'e  the  tiny  kickshaw,  and  I  smack  my  lips 

wi'  glee, 

And  mickle  do  I  lo'e  the  taste  o'  sic  a  luxourie, 
But  maist  I  lo'e  the  bonnie  hans  that  could  the 

gif  tie  gie 

O'  the  little  tiny  kickshaw  that  Mither  sent  to  me. 
J.  W.  RHEY 

*This  poem,  which  is  printed  exactly  as  the  Poet  wrote 
it  to  Miss  Kahle,  differs  slightly,  both  in  text  and  punctuation, 
from  the  printed  versions. 

[651 


And  O  yes!  —  when  I  go  in  with  a  Lecture 
Bureau  next  season  —  which  I  will  —  Fm 
going  to  struggle  to  get  down  your  way.  I 
shall  never  be  content  till  you  see  me  on 
"my  throne  —  the  rostrum,"  —  that's  the 
way  the  big  bill  reads.  I  fill  this  blank  up 
with  a  real  laugh. 

Yours, 

J.  W.  R. 

Of  course  you'll  forgive  all  this  display  of 
vanity  —  no,  it  isn't  vanity  —  it's  just 
'cause  I'm  glad,  and  want  you  to  know  it. 
But  it  is  such  fun  to  bewilder  folks.  My 
best  friends  don't  know  I  am  Walker,  and 
you  will  notice  comment  from  Mr.  B.  S. 
Parker  —  a  leading  poet  of  our  State,  and 
one  of  my  closest  friends  —  and  only  just 
see  what  he  has  written  to  the  editor  regard 
ing  "Walker,"  and  observe,  too,  the  clever 
ness  of  the  comment  following.  O,  I  just 
clap  my  hands! 

Don't  bother  about  returning  the  scraps. 
I  have  bushels  of  'em.  You  remember  the 
little  old  myth  of  "Beauty  and  the  Beast." 

[66] 


I  came  across  a  reminder  of  it  yesterday, 
which  I  embellish  and  enclose.  I  want  you 
to  smile  upon  it. 

Kokomo,  Ind., 

July  15,  1879. 
Once  more  dear  friend :  — 

My  scrawl  of  yesterday  I  have  carried  till 
today,  being  so  busied  with  a  thousand 
things.  I'm  unexpectedly  visiting  my  good 
friend  here,  the  editor  of  the  Tribune.  He's 
going  to  put  me  at  work,  too;  so  you  see, 
like  good  Chispa,  —  "in  running  away  from 
the  thunder  I  have  run  into  the  lightning;" 
but  after  all,  the  world  is  very  good. 

You  will  pardon  the  apparent  haste  and 
untidiness  of  my  last  communication,  I  am 
sure,  and  believe  me, 

As  ever  your  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

Later.  —  I  want  to  tell  you  all  about  that 
cunning  little  sketch  you  sent  me.  When 
I  write  I  will,  and  I  intend  to  write  soon. 

J.  W.  R. 

Maybe  I'll  send  you  a  sketch.  Used  to 
sketch  a  little. 

[67] 


Greenfield,  Ind., 

August  14,  1879. 
Miss  Kahle — 

Dear  friend :  — 

I  cannot  blame  you  if  you  think  me 
neglectful.  It  will  appear  so,  though  again 
and  again  must  assure  you  that  I  am  not. 
When  I  wrote  you  last  I  was  anticipating  a 
brief  rest  from  my  labors,  but  was  driven 
back  to  work  again  with  scarcely  the  interval 
of  a  good  long  breath. 

I  am  now  regularly  furnishing  four  papers 
with  contributions,  besides  writing  a  part 
nership  book,  and  perfecting  an  original 
programme  for  readings  the  coming  season. 
So  you  will  see  I  am  indeed  overwhelmed, 
and  I  must  throw  in,  too,  by  way  of  good 
measure,  the  fact  that  I'm  in  rather  ill  health. 
I  don't  like  to  acknowledge  this,  but  I  feel 
that  I  will  be  better  for  the  confession.  I 
am  very  nervous,  and  worry  a  great  deal 
more  than  is  good  for  me,  and  the  doctor 
says  if  I  don't  give  up  night-work  (my  time 
of  all  times  for  work)  I'll  just  naturally  "go 
out"  like  a  candle.  Pleasant  contempla 
tion!  —  isn't  it?  But  this  winter  will  bring 
[63] 


me  round  all  right  again,  I'm  sure  —  when 
I  get  on  the  road,  you  know,  entrancing  the 
world  at  large  with  my  rhythmic  eloquence, 
and  leaving  delighted  thousands  bathed  in 
tears — Ah,  ha!  what  a  picture  for  the  sallow 
little  giant  as  his  pencil  trips  along  the  words. 
You'll  think  I  have  forgotten  the  picture, 
too,  but  I  haven't.  O  but  this  blotchy  old 
face  of  mine  takes  awful!  It  aint  blotchy 
either,  but  it  always  takes  that  way  —  so 
you'd  think  I  was  uglier  than  I  really  am  — 
and  that's  bad  enough.  But  will  you  wait 
just  a  little  longer?  Please  see  how  I  want 
you  to  have  my  picture,  and  how  more  I 
want  yours,  and  if  I  don't  very  soon  get  a 
better  one  than  this,  why  I'll  send  it  along 
with  directions  how  to  look  at  the  paradox 
—  for  my  mustache  is  not  black  (as  the 
picture  makes  it)  —  my  head  bald ;  my  eyes 
brown,  or  my  face  solemn,  haggard  and  long 
as  an  undertaker's.  All  this  the  picture 
makes  me,  and  I  won't  submit  to  it.  My 
hair  is  rather  light  in  color,  and  I  have  a  way 
of  brushing  it  closely  down  and  sleeking  it 
so  the  camera  of  the  artist  just  glances  off, 
I  guess.  Then  my  mustache  is —  well  what 
[691 


I  have  always  persisted  in  calling  "amber- 
colored"  —  "hardly  golden"  —  a  trifle  deep 
even  for  pinchbeck  —  but  it  aint  red  —  nor 
it  aint  black,  and  you'll  say  so  when  you  see 
me,  and  like  me  all  the  better  for  not  being 
prejudiced  with  this  paraphrase  on  my  real 
appearance. 

In  the  meantime,  I  find  that  I  am  sadly 
missing  your  good  letters,  and  I  need  them. 
They  are  more  to  me  than  I  can  tell  you, 
and  you  must  write  to  me  now,  now,  now. 

Soon  I  will  have  more  leisure  to  respond 
than  now,  but  by  the  time  another  reaches 
me,  I  will  take  the  time  whether  I  have  it 
or  not,  and  I  will  write  to  you  as  I  want  to. 

I  have  got  the  little  sketch  you  sent,  pinned 
here  above  my  desk,  with  a  terra  cotta 
Venus  on  either  side,  and  stacks  and  stacks 
of  poetry  heaped  high  up  to  her  baby  feet. 

Please  write  to  me  at  once.  Tell  me  you 
forgive  me  for  everything,  'cause  I  can't 
help  it  all  and  you  must  forgive  me. 

I  again  afflict  you  with  scraps  —  scraps, 
—  scraps.  As  ever 

Your  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 
[701 


Greenfield,  August  23,  1879. 

My  dear  friend :  — 

Your  letter  is  so  kind  —  so  very  kind  and 
good,  that  I  must  write  at  once  to  thank  you 
for  it  and  grab  your  two  warm  hands  close 
in  my  own  and  wring  them  fervently.  Only 
you  mustn't  be  concerned  about  my  health 
or  welfare  —  anything  —  'cause  I  don't  de 
serve  such  interest  from  anyone  so  good  as 
you.  I  do  smile,  though,  when  you  say,  "I 
want  to  ask,  like  I  do  of  children  when  they 
cry,  what  is  the  matter?  Tell  me." 

Surely  if  you  feel  like  that,  then  indeed 
you  comprehend  me  just  as  I  am,  —  a  little 
helpless  child  —  who  would  thank  God 
with  all  his  boyish  heart  if  you  just  could  — 
now  this  minute  —  put  your  hands  over  my 
eyes  and  say,  "Now  you  must  sleep;"  only 

—  only —  I  want  to  be  strong  enough  to  bear 
my  burden,  and  your  dear  words  make  me 
weak.     You  don't  know  —  you  can't  know 

—  what  a  weight  it  is,  and  how  heavier  it 
grows  each  weary  step  I  take. 

Forgive  me,  but  you  mustn't  be  so  good 
to  me,  because  I  want  you  to  be  happy  — 
[71] 


not  like  me,  who  cannot  even  lift  my  empty 
hands  at  times,  and  ask  God's  help.  You 
make  me  want  to  call  you  "little  girl."  You 
make  me  want  to  come  to  you  creeping  on 
my  face  and  hands,  to  hide  away  from  all 
the  world  and  rest  —  rest!  But  this  is 
Fate's  hand  clutching  mine,  and  dragging 
me  from  pleasant  ways  through  tangled 
labyrinths  and  steep  defiles,  and  over  stony 
paths  where  no  flowers  bloom,  and  no  bird 
ever  sings,  and  no  one  (should  I  not  thank 
God  for  that?)  to  —  "Sit  down  in  the  dark 
ness  and  weep  with  me  on  the  edge  of  the 
world  —  so  love  lies  dead."  Yet,  I  wish 
that  I  might  talk  with  you  a  little  for  I  am 
good  and  you  must  know  that  always.  You 
are  like  me  in  many  things,  and  in  one  thing 
in  particular,  you  are  inclined  to  tire  of  it  all 
(I  mean  this  thing  of  living  on  and  on  —  for 
—  what?)  —  and  ever  yearning  for  some 
indefinable  good  that  is  ever  kept  from  you. 
Am  I  not  right?  Well,  I  do  not  know  your 
strength,  but  I  will  pray  that  it,  too,  is  like 
my  own;  that  you  can  say  with  me,  —  "It 
all  means  something ',  since  God  wills  it,  and 
may  He  give  me  strength  and  patience  to 
[721 


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abide."  And  it  does  mean  something  since 
God  wills  it,  and  He  will  give  us  strength  and 
patience  to  abide.  And  I  smile  now  as  I 
fancy  our  two  souls  are  kneeling  here  to 
gether  side  by  side,  praying  in  one  voice, 
and  God  will  hear  it. 

"Now  another  new  moon  is  here." 

The  poems  you  send  are  both  good.  The 
Moon-poem  especially  —  only  it  is  so  pas 
sionately  hopeless.  It  is  like  the  sound  of 
my  own  voice,  —  or  Yours  —  Ours!  God 
bless  us  yet  a  little  more  than  this! 

And  you  are  not  to  cry  now,  'cause  I'm 
almost  well,  and  will  be  quite  when  your 
next  letter  comes,  —  that  will  cure  me. 
And  I  do  promise  you  not  to  work  quite  so 
hard  as  I  have  been  doing.  And  I  have 
heard  you  call  to  me,  and  I  have  answered 
saying  —  "God  bless  you,  little  girl,  you  rest 
me  so!" 

There,  — 

J.  W.  R. 

Later.  —  Will  you  understand  it  all?  Will 
you  understand,  I  wonder,  if  I  tell  you  that 
I  fear  that  I  am  going  to  make  you  unhappy? 

[73] 


Will  you  understand  me  when  I  tell  you 
that  should  this  premonition  prove  true, 
that  your  unhappiness  would  be  my  own? 
I  fear  you  never  will  quite  understand  the 
strange,  strange  paradox  I  am.  I  hardly 
understand  it  all  myself.  At  times,  it  is  all 
black  —  black.  You  must  not  think  too 
kindly  of  me.  Not  that  I  don't  deserve 
esteem,  perhaps,  —  but,  rather,  all  the 
affection  I  can  offer  in  return  is  as  vain  as 
it  is  wild  and  fervid.  If  I  could  take  your 
hand  and  hold  it  as  I  say  these  words  you 
would  know  how  deeply  truthful,  sad  and 
earnest  I  am  in  this  belief.  My  life  has 
been  made  up  of  disappointments  and  de 
spairs.  This  is  no  morbid  fancy, —  it  is 
fact.  I  have  learned  to  bear  it  well,  as  I 
have  learned  to  expect  but  little  else.  I 
ache,  but  I  grope  on  —  smiling  in  the  dark. 
You  are  not  strong  as  I  am  strong.  Your 
tears  would  overflow  the  path  and  sweep 
you  back.  You  must  not  know  what  I 
endure.  God  made  you  to  be  glad,  so  you 
must  not  lean  too  far  out  of  the  sunshine  to 
help  me.  I  am  not  wholly  selfish,  strug 
gling  down  here  in  the  gloom,  but  I  am  worn 

[74] 


and  O  so  tired  —  tired  —  tired,  that  I  can 
but  grasp  your  hand  if  proffered  —  only 
don't  —  don't!  Just  hail  me  from  the  brink 
with  cheery  words.  That  will  be  best  for 
you  —  and  as  for  me  —  why,  I  will  be 
stronger  surely,  knowing  I  have  dragged 
no  bright  hopes  down  with  my  poor  drown 
ing  ones. 

My  whole  being  goes  out  from  me,  and  I 
am  calling  to  you  through  the  great  distance 
that  divides  us.  Do  you  hear?  —  God  bless 
you,  little  girl,  and  keep  you  always  glad  as 
you  are  good. 

You  must  write  to  me  at  once.  I  dream 
now  that  your  face  is  drooped  a  little,  but  I 
lift  it  with  my  hand,  and  it  is  bright  and  beau 
tiful  to  me .  So ,  set  it  heavenward  and  where 
the  sunlight  falls  full  on  it  as  you  move, 
and  I  will  see  its  radiance  flash  back,  and 
that  will  help  me.  And  so  God  bless  us  both. 

Want  you,  when  you  write,  to  tell  me  all 
about  yourself  —  And  do  you  have  a  hard 
time,  and  no  rest,  and  no  promise  of  it? 
And  are  you  poor  like  me  —  and  proud, 
though?  Ah,  so  I  thought.  Well,  be  brave. 
That's  all.  You  are  not  poor  like  the  world; 
[751 


thank  God  for  that.  I  am  so  poor  I  cannot 
even  keep  the  sister  I  love  from  work.  Some 
times  I  smile  though  when  she  makes  more 
money  than  I  do,  with  all  my  preponderance 
of  Genius —  (ahem!  !)  — please  laugh! 

Greenfield,  Ind., 

September  1,  1879. 
My  dear  friend :  — 

You  will  never  know  how  bewilderingly 
glad  and  proud  your  gift  has  made  me.  You 
mentioned  in  your  letter  that  you  would 
send  me  "Two  little  pictures,"  though  they 
did  not  get  here  till  three  days  after  — 
Saturday  —  and  this  is  Monday.  Posi 
tively  I  don't  know  what  to  do  or  say.  The 
surprise  is  so  great  —  their  worth  is  so  much 
above  even  what  I  had  fancied  —  and  they 
are  so  everything  to  me  that  I  am  powerless 
to  do  anything  but  stretch  my  empty  hands 
out  toward  you  as  I  sometimes  do  toward 
Heaven  when  it  is  good  to  me. 

I  fancy  that  this  face  of  Beatrice  is  like 

your  own,  and  so  I  smile  and  smile  upon  it, 

wishing  it  could  speak  and  tell  me  just  how 

tired  it  has  grown  of  everything,  that  I  might 

[761 


bend  and  touch  it  with  niy  own,  and  say 
"Dear  child,  be  rested  for  my  sake."  You 
must  wait  a  long  time  patiently  till  I  can 
think  of  something  that  will  please  you  in 
return.  I  can't  imagine  now  what  it  will  be, 
but  it  must  be  something  very  rare  and  rich 
and  curious  and  beautiful  and  dear  in  your 
eyes.  So  I  must  think  and  ponder  studi 
ously  for  ages  yet. 

And  how  I  like  this  little  piece  of  charac 
ter  —  Genre,  do  you  call  it?  —  something 
like  that,  I  suspect  —  but  /  will  call  it 
homey,  and  heartsome,  and  most  lovable, 
hi  its  dim,  earthy  beauty,  and  matter-of-fact 
individuality.  I  am  not  critic  enough  to  tell 
why  the  work  is  good,  but  I  feel  intuitively 
that  as  a  real  artistic  performance  it  does 
possess  the  highest  merit.  I  have  many 
artist-friends  at  Indianapolis,  and  am  with 
them  quite  often,  and  I  think  I  absorb  in 
some  degree  something  of  their  knowledge 
and  insight  regarding  such  things.  Any 
way,  I  shall  hold  that  this  little  work  is  not 
only  a  very  truthful  life-study,  but  in  color, 
tone,  and  conscientious  treatment  in  all 
technical  details,  it  is  masterly. 
[771 


I  haven't  swung  them  up  yet.  My  little 
room  here  is  so  dismal  now  that  I  will  be 
forced  to  remodel  it  throughout,  and  I'm  too 
poor  to  paper  the  walls  as  I  would  like,  or  do 
anything  but  turn  the  carpet,  wash  the 
windows,  and  move  my  desk  to  some  other 
corner.  But  I  can  smile  yet.  Don't  forget 
that,  and  have  waited  so  long  already  that 
the  "good  time  coming"  can't  be  so  very  far 
away. 

I  was  expecting  to  go  into  the  city  today 
with  my  brother,  who  is  still  an  invalid,  but 
he  feared  the  rain,  and  so  will  not  go  until 
tomorrow.  Then  I'm  going  to  get  you  a 
tin-type  of  this  face  of  mine  anyhow.  I'm 
growing  very  anxious  for  you  to  see  just  how 
I  look  now,  'cause  I've  concluded  to  sacri 
fice  the  mustache  hi  the  interest  of  my  char 
acter  readings,  and  once  off  it  must  remain 
so,  'cause  it  would  argue  to  the  dear  public, 
—  seeing  me  first  with  and  then  without 
beard, — that  I  had  no  stability  of  character 
and  all  that.  So  really  it  is  a  very  serious 
change  to  contemplate.  Besides,  I've  worn 
a  mustache  now  for  years  and  years ;  in  fact 
this  is  my  first,  as  it  must  be  my  last. 
[78] 


I  must  hurry  through.  I  have  only  time 
to  clip  and  enclose  a  recent  "interview" 
with  a  special  correspondent.*  I  shudder 
as  I  fold  it  up,  feeling  that  in  it  I  send  you 
more  of  my  real  self  than  you  have  ever 
gathered  through  my  letters,  or  perhaps 
have  ever  dreamed.  I  think  a  thousand 
things.  Maybe  you  will  be  shocked  — 
though  I  don't  believe  that ;  maybe  you  will 
think  "It  might  have  been  worse,"  or  may 
be,  —  "He's  better  now" — and  that's  some 
comfort.  No  matter  what  you  think,  my 
dear,  dear  friend,  I  will  be  proud  if  you  will 
recognize  in  it  honesty  above  all  subterfuge, 
and  [endeavor?]  to  defy  the  censure  of  the 
Vere  de  Vere  element,  since  after  all,  — 

"  'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good." 

I  don't  know  what  your  next  letter  will  be. 
I  am  restful.  I  am  waiting;  I  believe  in 
you,  and  you  have  made  me  better.  I  think 
you  are  wholly  good,  and  you  have  my 
fullest  confidence. 


*Mrs.  Brunn  (nee  Kahle)  says  that  this  "interview"  was 
not  preserved,  and  that  she  has  no  recollection  of  what  it 
was,  or  what  became  of  it. 

[79] 


God  bless  you  and  keep  you  always  glad; 
and  with  all  gratitude  and  warm  esteem, 
believe  me, 

Your  true  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

HOPE* 

HOPE,  bending  o'er  me  one  time,  snowed  the 
flakes 

Of  her  white  touches  on  my  folded  sight, 
And  whispered,  half  rebukingly,  "What  makes 

My  little  girl  so  sorrowful  tonight?" 

0  scarce  did  I  unclasp  my  lids,  or  lift 

Their  tear-glued  fringes,  as  with  blind  embrace 

1  caught  within  my  arms  the  mother-gift, 

And  with  wild  kisses  dappled  all  her  face. 

That  was  a  baby-dream  of  long  ago. 
My  fate  is  fanged  with  frost,  and  tongued 

with  flame : 
My  woman-soul,  chased  naked  through  the 

snow, 
Stumbles  and  staggers  on  without  an  aim. 

And  yet,  here  in  my  agony,  sometimes 
A  faint  voice  reaches  down  from  some  far 
height, 

And  whispers  through  a  glamoring  of  rhymes,  — 
"What  makes  my  little  girl  so  sad  to-night?" 

J.  W.  R. 

*This  poem,  in  Riley's  handwriting,  appears  on  a  long 
sheet,  above  the  prose  note  that  here  follows  it. 

[80] 


September  18,  1879. 

Here  is  a  little  poem  that  wrote  itself.  I 
hardly  know  if  I  fully  comprehend  it,  but 
something  tells  me  you  will  like  it,  for  all  its 
strangeness,  and  I  trust  you  will. 

Soon  I  will  answer  your  last  note  and  gal 
lant  letter  that  made  me  laugh  and  cry. 
You  mustn't  be  so  queer!  I'm  growing 
envious  —  or  jealous,  rather.  I've  been 
without  a  rival  in  that  line  for  so  long  I  can't 
be  reconciled  to  any  competition.  I  know 
the  letter  like  a  prayer,  and  I  do  breathe  it 
quite  as  fervently. 

Don't  think  that  I  suspect  you  of  duplicity 
in  any  way.  I  only  thought  the  Elde  Kael 
poem  might  be  yours,  sent  to  the  Herald 
through  a  friend,  perhaps.  Am  truly  sorry, 
though,  you  don't  live  nearer.  But  never 
mind !  —  for  I  will  find  you  some  day.  Then 
I  will  tell  you  just  how  good  you  have  been 
to  me  (for  you  don't  know),  and  just  how  I 
appreciate  your  every  kindly  word  and  wish. 
Only  you  mustn't  go  on  thinking  I  am 
not  strong  and  well,  or  ever  likely  to  be 

[811 


otherwise  —  'cause  I'm  a  positive  athlete, 
though  I  don't  look  so. 

Just  completing  the  lecture.  You  should 
hear  it.  Good,  if  it  is  mine !  'Spect  there's 
not  a  line  of  it  but  was  untangled  from 
thoughts  of  you — (slap  him!  slap  him!). 
Anyway,  I'm  thinking  of  you  now,  and  shall 
work  no  more  tonight.  "God  bless  us 
every  one!"  The  Cenci  smiles  and  smiles. 
How  strange  is  everything!  Good  night. 

Greenfield,  Ind., 

October  10,  1879. 
Dear  friend :  — 

It  has  been  ages  since  I  last  wrote  you, 
but  you  will  forgive  me  when  I  tell  you  that 
I've  been  preparing  a  special  programme  for 
a  Benefit  tendered  me  by  the  people  of 
Indianapolis.  It  is  such  an  undertaking  for 
me  —  and  I  must  succeed  there,  of  all  places 
in  the  world  —  that  for  weeks  I  have  forced 
myself  to  neglect  everything  else.  And  I 
write  now  simply  to  enclose  a  long-promised 
tin-type*  for  it  is  not  a  likeness, as  in  spite 


*See  left-hand  picture  on  frontispiece  in  this  volume ;  also 
explanation  at  page  69  ante. 

[82] 


of  all  attempts  my  face  refuses  to  be  repro 
duced  in  even  "shadowy  similitude."  The 
general  contour  of  head  and  feature,  how 
ever,  is  exact,  and  the  eyes  are  positively 
the  best  I  have  ever  succeeded  in  getting. 
But  this  picture  I  intend  to  suppress  as  soon 
as  I  succeed  in  getting  a  successful  photo 
graph  of  the  present  Riley,  —  for  now,  as  I 
told  you,  my  face  is  a  barren  desert,  with  no 
oasis  in  the  shape  of  a  mustache  to  break  its 
broad  monotony  of  desolation,  and  I  only 
send  you  this  that  you  may  hold  it  as  a  sort 
of  hostage  until  my  present  and  future  self 
arrives ;  then  you  must  return  it.  The  other 
I  will  send  in  a  few  weeks  at  farthest. 

And  now  in  the  meantime,  enclose  me 
your  own,  for  I  can  never  tell  you  just  how 
eager  I  am  to  look  upon  your  kindly  face. 
You  say  you  are  anything  but  handsome, 
but  I  know  you  will  be  beautiful  to  me.  God 
bless  you  always,  and  keep  you  forever  just 
the  good  little  girl  that  rests  me  so! 

Please  write  me  soon.  Your  letter  will 
please  me  even  beyond  the  most  flattering 
ovation  that  could  be  given  at  my  approach 
ing  appearance  at  the  shrine  of  Public  Favor. 
[831 


I  enclose  also  announcements  of  the 
coming  Trial*  —  which  please  return,  as  I 
file  away  every  scrap  of  good  and  bad  that 
anybody  ever  says  about 

Your  True  Friend,  "Till  death  us  do  part." 

J.  W.  RILEY 

Greenfield,  Ind., 
October  18,  1879. 

Goin'  to  call  you  My  dear,  dear  friend, 
today,  —  'cause  your  picture's  come  at  last, 
and  I  do  love  it  so!  I've  been  talkin'  to  it, 
and  smiling  over  it  and  wondering  at  it,  but 
you  just  stand  there  dead  still,  and  will  not 
even  whisper  to  me  in  return  —  and  so,  like 
the  grim  old  lover  of  "Beautiful  Evelyn 
Hope,"  I  press  one  blossom  in  your  folded 
hand  saying,  — 

"There!  that  is  our  secret.    Go  to  sleep,  — 
You  will  wake  and  remember  and  understand." 

You  are  not  exactly  like  the  picture  I  have 

he  com 
[84] 


*Doubtless  referring  to  the  coming  Benefit  to  be  tendered 
him  in  Indianapolis. 


been  holding  up  before  my  fancy's  eye  — 
you  are  even  more  womanly  than  my  ideal 

—  and  O  so  womanly  was  she !  —  That  is 
my  one  best  word  of  all  —  WOMAN.    It  is 
so  regal,  high  and  pure  and  white!    God 
bless  you,  WOMAN  ! ! 

Have  been  too  confused  and  tangled  up 
to  sit  for  the  present  Riley,  but  you  may 
look  for  that  now  very  soon,  as  I  begin  to 
breathe  once  more.  The  prolonged  agony 
attending  The  Benefit  is  over  now,  and  I  am 
very,  very —  (I  was  going  to  say  "happy," 
but  it  aint  quite  that,  —  for  the  old  ache  in 
my  throat  is  not  quite  gone  and  it  will  never 
go,  I  guess.  But  I  am  GLAD,  and  very,  very 
thankful  —  to  God  first,  then  my  little  girl 

—  then  all  the  world. 

Such  a  brave  poem  was  that  you  sent  me  !* 
I  do  hug  it  in  my  arms.  God  bless  you,  — 
bless  you  —  bless  you  —  just  'cause  I  can't 
help  thinking  that  your  own  heart  hurts  like 
mine.  —  Only  I'm  too  selfish  to  think  it 
could  hurt  worse.  I  wouldn't  allow  that, 
though  the  white  lips  of  your  soul  moaned 
"I  am  tired!"  —  O  are  you  "tired?"  Once 

*See  poem  in  full,  next  following  this  letter. 
[851 


I  wrote  a  poem  called  "Tired."*  That  was 
the  burthen  of  it,  — Tired!  Tired!  And  I 
must  rest.  The  last  verses  read:  — 

And  I  must  rest!  —  But  do  not  say  "he  died," 

In  speaking  of  me,  sleeping  here  alone , 
I  kiss  my  fate  as  one  might  kiss  a  bride, 
And  close  my  eyes  in  slumber  all  my  own. 
Hereafter  I  shall  neither  sob  nor  moan, 

Nor  murmur  one  complaint:  All  I  desired, 
And  failed  hi  life  to  find,  will  now  be  known. — 
So  let  me  dream  —  Good  night!  —  And  on 

the  stone 
Say  simply,  "He  was  Tired." 

The  Benefit  has  been  such  a  success,  in 
every  way!    You  can  but  be  glad  with  me, 

*The  last  stanza  of  this  poem  which  appears  in  the  printed 
editions  under  the  title,  "An  Outworn  Sappho,"  reads  as 
follows : — 

And  I  must  rest. —  Yet  do  not  say  she  died, 
In  speaking  of  me  sleeping  here  alone. 
I  kiss  the  grassy  grave  I  sink  beside, 
And  close  mine  eyes  in  slumber  all  mine  own: 
Hereafter  I  shall  neither  sob  nor  moan 
Nor  murmur  one  complaint;  —  all  I  desired 
And  failed  in  life  to  find,  will  now  be  known  — 
So  let  me  dream.     Good  night!    And  on  the  stone 
Say  simply:  She  was  tired. 

In  copying  it  for  Miss  Kahle  the  Poet  changed  the  gender 
from  feminine  to  masculine,  thus  making  it  a  sort  of  personal 
requiem,  somewhat  after  the  order  of  Stevenson's  famous 
requiem  poem.  He  also  improved  the  third  line  by  sub 
stituting  — 

I  kiss  my  fate  as  one  might  kiss  a  bride 
for 

I  kiss  the  grassy  grave  I  sink  beside. 

[86] 


so  I  send  press  notices  without  comment  of 
my  own.  You  will  return  the  scraps  as 
before,  as  I  will  need  them  as  references, 
you  know;  such  is  business  (how  I  hate  the 
very  word!). 

Now  I  hold  your  hand,  and  say  God  bless 
you,  and  Good  by.  You  will  write  soon  and 
I'll  hope  that  when  I  write  again  I  can  say 
more  than  this. 

Yours  as  ever, 

J.  W.  R. 


A  WOMAN'S  CONCLUSION 

I  said,  if  I  might  go  back  again 
To  the  very  hour  and  place  of  my  birth, 

Might  have  my  life  whatever  I  chose, 
And  live  it  in  any  part  of  the  earth, 

Put  perfect  sunshine  into  my  sky, 
Banish  the  shadow  of  sorrow  and  doubt, 

Have  all  my  happiness  multiplied, 
And  all  my  suffering  stricken  out; 

If  I  could  have  known  in  the  years  now  gone 
The  best  that  a  woman  comes  to  know, 

Could  have  whatever  will  make  her  blest, 
Or  whatever  she  thinks  will  make  her  so ; 

1871 


Have  found  the  highest  and  purest  bliss 
That  the  bridal-wreath  and  ring  inclose, 

And  gained  the  one  out  of  all  the  world 
That  my  heart  as  well  as  my  reason  chose, 

And  if  this  had  been,  and  I  stood  tonight 
By  my  children,  lying  asleep  in  their  beds. 

And  could  count  in  my  prayers,  for  a  rosary, 
The  shining  row  of  their  golden  heads,  — 

Yea!  I  said,  if  a  miracle  such  as  this 

Could  be  wrought  for  me,  at  my  bidding,  still 

I  would  choose  to  have  my  past  as  it  is, 
And  to  let  my  future  come  as  it  will! 

I  would  not  make  the  path  I  have  trod 

More  pleasant  or  even,  more  straight  or  wide, 

Nor  change  my  course  the  breadth  of  a  hair, 
This  way  or  that  way,  to  either  side. 

My  past  is  mine,  and  I  take  it  all, 
Its  weakness  —  its  folly,  if  you  please  — 

Nay,  even  my  sins,  if  you  come  to  that, 
May  have  been  my  helps,  not  hindrances! 

I  have  saved  my  body  from  the  flames, 
Because  that  once  I  had  burned  my  hand; 

Or  kept  myself  from  a  greater  sin 
By  doing  a  less  —  you  will  understand ; 

It  was  better  I  suffered  a  little  pain, 

Better  I  sinned  for  a  little  time, 
If  the  smarting  warned  me  back  from  death, 

And  the  sting  of  sin  withheld  from  crime. 

[88] 


Who  knows  his  strength,  by  trial,  will  know 
What  strength  must  be  set  against  a  sin, 

And  how  temptation  is  overcome; 

He  has  learned,  who  has  felt  its  power  within  I 

And  who  knows  how  a  life  at  the  last  may  show? 

Why,  look  at  the  moon  from  where  we  stand! 
Opaque,  uneven,  you  say;  yet  it  shines, 

A  luminous  sphere,  complete  and  grand  I 

So  let  my  past  stand,  just  as  it  stands, 
And  let  me  now,  as  I  may,  grow  old; 

I  am  what  I  am,  and  my  life  for  me 
Is  the  best  —  or  it  had  not  been,  I  hold. 

ALICE  CAREY 


Greenfield,  Ind., 

November  22,  1879. 
Dear  friend :  — 

I'm  an  awful  quiet  fellow,  ain't  I?  Sorto* 
mysterious  like,  almost  —  'spect  you're  be 
ginning  to  think.  But  you'll  forgive,  I  know 
—  'cause  you've  never  failed  me  yet,  and 
somehow  I  feel  so  sure  you  understand. 
"You  will  wake  and  remember  and  under 
stand"  —  won't  you,  Evelyn  Hope?  You 
know  that  poem  of  Browning's,  don't  you? 
Well,  I  have  been  very  busy ;  not  so  busy, 
though,  that  I  have  forgotten  you  —  only  I 
[891 


just  couldn't  find  time  to  write  the  kind  of 
letter  that  I  wanted  to  —  and  even  now  you 
see  I'm  galloping  along  like  a  hook-and- 
ladder  company  to  a  conflagration.  Haven't 
time  even  to  tell  you  how  good  your  last 
letter  was  and  how  it  made  me  bless  you 
over  and  over  again.  You  must  guess  all 
that  —  and  you  can  if  you  will  bury  your 
kind  face  away  down  deep  in  your  pillow 
this  night,  and  think  of  the  grim  old  face 
that  as  it  bends  above  this  page  is  molten 
with  a  smile,  and  even  half-way  handsome, 
I  believe. 

God  bless  you  —  bless  you  —  bless  you. 
I  say  it  over  and  over  again.  You  are  good, 
I  know  —  only  you  must  not  have  presenti 
ments  —  or  feel  blue  —  or  sad  —  or  any 
way  but  happy.  Do  you  hear? 

I'm  regularly  employed  now  —  what  time 
I'm  not  before  the  "clamouring  public," 
lecturing  —  on  a  daily  paper,  and  my  home 
henceforth  is  Indianapolis,  and  you  must 
direct  care  Daily  Journal  —  don't  forget 
that!  Next  time  I  write  I'll  make  a  letter 
of  it  —  this  is  but  a  note  —  the  only  thing 
I  can  offer.  I  enclose  a  sample  of  the  little 
[90] 


sketches  I  am  forced  to  dash  off  now. 
Haven't  time  for  anything  but  such  bits  as 
this  —  and  odds  and  ends  in  verse  —  and 
paragraphs  —  and  nothings. 

O  yes,  —  I  must  tell  you  about  a  late 
visit  to  Mrs.  D.  M.  Jordan,  evidently  your 
favorite,  since  you  send  me  so  many  clip 
pings  from  her  pen.  Mr.  Griswold  —  the 
Fat  Contributor  —  and  myself  went  in  ca 
hoots  last  week,  and  lectured  jointly  for  her 
benefit  at  Richmond,  Ind.  O,  what  a  time 
we  had!  If  you  could  only  see  and  know 
her!  Why,  the  very  voice  of  her  is  pure 
music!  And  she  gave  me  a  little  volume 
of  her  poems  with  her  own  handwriting  in 
the  front  —  and  do  you  know  what  I'm 
going  to  do  with  it?  Going  to  bundle  it  up, 
and  send  it  to  you  to  muse  over,  and  laugh 
over  —  and  cry  over,  and  thank  God  and 
Mrs.  Jordan  and  ME  for  every  line  of  it 
—  Ho!  ho! 

And  so  Good  night  —  Good  night! 

"What!  both  your  snowy  hands?    Ah,  then 
I'll  have  to  say  good  night  again!" 

Oh,  I  must  hunt  that  little  song  and  send  it 
[91] 


too.  It's  so  like  you  —  or  so  it  seems  — 
only  you're  more  vague  and  shadowy,  and 
farther  away  —  yes,  even  farther  than  my 
fancy  dares  to  go. 

Yours  as  ever, 

J.  W.  RILEY 


Indianapolis,  Ind., 
December  12,  1879. 

O,  my  dear  girl,  how  long  you  have  kept 
me  waiting!  But  you're  here  again,  and 
just  how  glad  your  letter  makes  me  you  will 
never  know.  I've  fancied  a  thousand  awful 
reasons  why  you  haven't  written,  and  a 
thousand  corresponding  fears  have  been 
worrying  me  till — but  no  matter!  —  you 
are  here  at  last,  and  I  grab  you  up  and  hug 
and  hold  you  till  the  breath  o'  me  goes 
crumbling  into  little  broken  bits  of  sighs 
like  baby-breezes  'fore  they've  learnt  to 
walk  without  wabblin'  —  bless  'em! 

I'm  mighty  glad  to  think  that  you  think  I 
think  I'm  happy  —  (I  steal  this  dubious 

[92] 


phraseology  from  Coventry  Patmore,  I  be 
lieve  :  — 

"I  saw  him  Kiss  your  Cheek!"  "  'Tis  true." 
' <O,  modesty !"     *  'Twas  strictly  kept  — 

He  thought  me  asleep  —  at  least  I  knew 
He  thought  I  thought  he  thought  I  slept.") 

But  I  am  about  half  happy,  —  I  won't  ac 
knowledge  more,  —  though  just  why  I 
should  be  I  can't  see  for  the  life  o'  me !  I'm 
working  hard  enough  to  scare  you  to  death, 
though  I  hasten  to  lull  your  fears  by  the 
admission  that  I'm  weighing  heavier  than 
ever  before  in  my  life.  Just  guess  how 
big  I  am!  Hundred  an'  twenty-six  pounds! 
O  aint  it  awful!  Now  let  me  guess  how 
much  you  weigh  —  and  you  must  acknowl 
edge  if  I  guess  it  right.  —  Just  about  one 
hundred  and  eight  pounds.  There!  aint 
that  a  good  guess?  —  just  from  'way  off 
here? 

The  "Tired"  poem  you  send  me  is  so  full 
of  strength  —  the  very  bone  and  thew  of 
passionate  yearning  for  that  great  vast  un 
known  good  that  is  always  coming  to  us  — 
though  it  never  gets  quite  here.  — 
1931 


"Ah!  would  you  care?  and  would  you  bend 

down,  Sweet, 

And  kiss  the  chill  mouth  with  regretful  pain? 
And  would  your  tears  fall  downward  on  the 

hands, 
Pallid,  and  purified  of  all  earth's  stain?" 

To  me  the  poem  is  almost  perfect  —  though 
had  I  written  it,  I  might  have  made  it  less 
perfect  with  a  concluding  verse  like  this : — 

Christ!  you  who  died  ere  weariness  like  this 
Had  reached  you,  for  a  moment's  rest  beside 

The  one  I  love,  that  I  might  taste  one  kiss, 
O  willingly  would  I  be  crucified. 

Such  a  galloping  letter  is  this,  and  so 
untidy  withal,  I'm  more  than  half  ashamed 
to  offer  it.  But  it's  the  very  best  I  can  do, 
and  you're  so  good  I  know  you'll  pardon  it 
for  all  its  incompleteness.  I  want  you  to 
just  keep  on  liking  me  all  you  can,  and  when 
I  do  say,  or  do,  unpleasant  things,  just  tell 
me  of  it,  or  shut  both  your  fists  and  pound 
me  like  a  drum  —  anything  is  good  enough 
for  me  if  even  unwittingly  I  should  wound 
your  woman's  heart  in  any  way. 

I'm  up  very  late  tonight  —  you  mustn't 

[94] 


blame  me  this  time  —  I've  got  company  — 
you're  here,  and  so  I  sit  here  with  your  two 
warm  hands  in  mine.  There!  there!  and 
there  again! 

J.R. 

Indianapolis,  Ind., 
December  26,  1879. 

My  dear,  dear  friend :  — 

I  can't  thank  you  —  I  can't  write  —  I 
can't  say  one  word!  I  have  been  lecturing 
'way  out  west,  and  am  just  back  to  find  your 
magnificent  Christmas  present  waiting  me 
—  and  your  letter  —  God  bless  you,  little 
girl,  you  rest  me  so!  But  how  bewildered 
I  am!  I  want  to  send  you  something  in 
return  for  the  pictures  (they  are  here  with 
me  in  more  sumptuous  quarters  than  my 
dim  old  room  at  home  —  for  here  is  brussels 
and  French  furniture,  and  all  that  —  with 
great  molten  bulbs  of  gas  to  light  it  up  — 
Ah!  I'm  growing  proud  and  cold  and  austere, 
shall  I  say?  No,  no!  my  little  girl,  I'm  only 
growing  gentler  with  my  growing  fortunes, 
and  I  like  YOU  —  O  you  can't  guess  —  you 
[95] 


can  never  guess  how  much).  I  haven't 
time,  nor  the  taste,  I  fear,  to  select  some 
present  you  would  like  —  leastwise  I  dread 
making  the  attempt  —  for  of  course  I  would 
never  know  if  I  suited  you  or  not  —  for  even 
though  the  gift  should  displease  you,  I  know 
you  would  not  acknowledge  it,  and  so  I'm 
going  to  do  with  you  just  as  I  have  wished  a 
hundred  times  others  would  do  with  me 
(though  not  in  your  instance  —  for  the 
presents  you  have  given  me  were  just  the 
very  ones  of  all  the  world  afforded  that  I 
want!) — but  what  I'm  going  to  do  —  or 
rather  what  I'm  going  to  propose  to  do  —  is 
to  send  you  a  present  in  hard  money,  for 
you  to  use  just  as  you  like.  Will  you  let 
me  do  this?  I  ask  in  all  seriousness.  I 
could  buy  you  a  picture  —  I  could  buy  you 
something  in  statuary  —  a  book  —  a  piece 
of  jewelry  —  (no,  I  couldn't  —  'cause  I'm 
almost  certain  your  taste  is  far  above  that). 
But  no  matter  —  whatever  I  might  buy,  I 
am  still  in  doubt  if  it  would  be  either  pleas 
ing  or  appropriate,  —  so  I  am  just  going  to 
have  you  tell  me  that  you  won't  be  offended 
if  I  send  my  present  in  money  —  Hard 


Cash!  Ah!  that's  a  sweet  old  word  if  you 
study  it  rightly!  And  in  offering  this,  I 
must  not  forget  to  assure  you  that  whatever 
amount  I  shall  send,  I  can  freely  spare,  and 
without  in  the  least  inconveniencing  my 
own  selfish  sen*.  In  fact,  if  you  don't  let 
me  do  as  I  want  to  in  this,  I'll  be  mad  at 
you  —  that's  all.  And  you  have  told  me 
time  and  again  that  everything  I  did  was 
right,  so  I  must  have  my  way  —  for  I  do 
most  solemnly  assure  you  that  I  believe  it 
would  be  right,  and  were  it  otherwise  I 
would  not  offer  it.  So  you  just  begin  your 
next  letter  with  "dear  friend"  as  you  always 
do,  and  don't  forbid  me  —  then  I  will  know 
that  you  do  indeed  trust  and  believe  in 
me,  and  then  my  gift,  just  as  munificent 
(no  more)  as  I  can  make  it,  shall  reach 
you. 

I  hold  both  hands  out  to  you  —  I  look 
your  two  eyes  full  of  all  kindly  things  —  I 
brim  them  over  with  pure  joy  —  and  some 
time  soon  —  I  hope  —  I  may  lean  closer  yet 
and  listen  to  your  voice. 

You  must  pardon  this  hurried  scrawl,  — 
I  am  busier  than  a  hive  o'  bees  —  just  such 
[97] 


lots  and  lots  of  lecture  engagements  all  over 
the  country! 

And  still,  still  I  am  so  hungry!    As  ever, 

J.  W.  RlLEY 

Greenfield,  Ind., 

January  2,  1880. 

—  And  A  Happy  New  Year! 

Dear,  dear  friend:  — 

A  week  ago  I  wrote  you  the  enclosed,* 
but  have  been  too  big  a  coward  to  send  it. 
And  in  all  the  time  I  have  been  withholding 
it  I  have  searched  in  vain  for  some  appropri 
ate  present  for  you.  I  want  to  send  you 
something  —  but  what ,  I  can't  find  —  so  in 
sheer  desperation  I  enclose  this  week-old 
proposition  —  though  in  the  meantime  I 
have  thought  of  another  way  of  putting  it, 
i.e.,  Fm  going  to  give  you  —  for  my  New 
Year's  gift  —  you  never  would  guess  what 
— I'm  going  to  give  you  a — BENEFIT.  Ho! 
ho!  Now  ain't  that  just  the  jolliest  idea  in 
the  world?  I'm  lecturing,  on  an  average, 

*Referring  to  the  previous  letter,  of  December  26. 
[98] 


about  four  times  a  week,  and  am  succeeding 
so  wonderfully  in  pleasing  people,  and  my 
self  as  well,  that  you  must  be  pleased  too, 
and  utter  no  protest.  The  proceeds  of  my 
next  lecture  shall  be  yours,  and  you  are  to 
invest  it  in  whatever  way,  or  ways,  you 
please.  You  can't  object  to  this,  —  for 
Benefits,  you  know,  are  tendered  artists, 
actors,  and  literary  people  every  day.  Even 
your  humble  servant,  you  will  remember, 
was  mighty  glad  and  proud  of  one  extended 
him  not  long  ago.  So  you  must  accept  the 
one  I  tender  you,  though  it  be  not  so  an 
nounced  upon  the  bills  or  hallooed  from  the 
house-tops. 

Now  I  am  glad,  —  'cause  at  last,  at  last, 
I  have  settled  within  my  own  bewildered 
and  long-suffering  brain  the  most  intricately 
complex  question  that  ever  tangled  its 
relentless  talons  in  the  wool  of  my  mental 
ity.  Just  think  how  happy  I  must  be  —  not 
how  happy,  but  how  fortunate  —  that's 
better. 

Three  days  ago  I  met  Burdette,  the  funny 
man  of  the  Hawkey e.  Our  hitherto  diverse 
paths  across  the  lecture  field  came  together 

[991 


at  last,  and  we  shook  hands  and  swore  to 
love  each  other  always.  He  is  just  as  true 
and  pure  and  good  as  he  is  funny,  and  you'd 
like  him,  I  know  —  you  must  like  him, 
that's  all!  —  'Cause  I  do,  you  know.  I'm 
going  to  enclose  to  you  the  card  he  wrote 
for  me,  so  be  good  to  it  always,  and  nestle 
it  away  among  your  sacredest  of  treasures. 
I  write,  as  I  must,  all  hurriedly.  I  am 
so  busy,  as  you  know.  God  bless  you! 
Write  soon  —  as  ever, 

Your  old  friend, 

J.  W.  R. 

Indianapolis,  Ind., 

January  21,  1880. 

My  dear  friend:  — 

I  have  stared  through  all  the  shelving  of 
the  world,  to  at  last  select  and  send  you 
this.*  I  don't  know  whether  it  will  please 

*"The  phrase  'and  send  you  this'  used  in  the  second  line 
of  letter  of  January  21,  1880,  refers  to  Songs  from  the  pub 
lished  writings  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  set  to  music  by  various 
persons,  —  being  a  folio  book,  bound  in  yellow  and  gold 
cloth  and  inscribed  in  Riley's  autograph,  'To  Miss  Lizzie 
D.  Kahle  with  the  regards  of  her  friend  J.  W.  Riley,  Indian 
apolis,  Ind.,  1880.'  "  —  Signed  statement  by  Elizabeth  Brunn, 
nee  Kahle. 

[100] 


you  or  not.    I  hope  it  will  —  but  after  all, 
it  is  so  poor  a  gift. 

It  was  mighty  good  of  you  to  say  that  you 
were  poor  —  and  mighty  noble  in  you  to  be 
proud  —  only —  only —  I  would  like  to  send 
you  something  that  would  be  of  real  value 
to  you,  being  poor.  Nowy  you  know,  I'm 
going  to  be  rich,  and  could  help  you,  and 
would  be  so  glad  to  —  O  so  glad  —  and  it 
would  make  me  happier  and  better  and 
that's  why  I  do  want  to  help  you  —  if  you'll 
ever  permit  me  to.  You  wanted  to  help  me 
once,  and  would  again,  I  know,  so  whether 
the  time  is  come,  or  ever  is  to  come,  you 
must  let  me  help  you  —  and  while  I  can  — 
'cause  maybe,  after  while,  I  can't  help  any 
one  —  not  even  myself  —  and  in  that  in 
stance,  I'll  call  on  you  sure! 

And  so,  God  bless  you  always,  little  girl, 
and  always  feel  and  know  that  with  you  I 
am  wholly  good. 

I   write   hurriedly,   as   you   see.     I   am 
pressed  with  hundreds  of  duties,  but  soon 
will  try  to  write  you  at  more  length. 
As  ever  yours, 

J.  W.  RILEY 
[101] 


Indianapolis,  Ind. 

Feb.  29,  1880. 
My  dear  friend :  — 

I  wonder  if  it  has  seemed  long  to  you 
since  my  last  letter  —  it  has  seemed  like 
ages  to  me.  I  have  been  so  wonderfully 
busy  with  my  lecture  business,  and  so  in 
volved  with  its  thousand  of  matter-of-fact 
considerations,  that  I  have  delayed  writing 
until  my  mind  might  be  free  to  dwell  on 
pleasant  themes.  But  I  find  the  longer  I 
wait  the  more  complicated  become  con 
tending  forces,  so  half  in  despair  at  last,  and 
desperate,  I  determine  to  say  something  to 
you  this  emptiest  of  all  days  —  Sunday. 

I  have  been  speaking  almost  every  night 
for  weeks  and  weeks  —  am  very  tired  of  it 
all,  I  assure  you.  I  have  not  been  meeting 
with  the  best  success  either,  in  a  financial 
point  of  view,  but  still  I  am  not  falling  behind 
in  any  way,  and  therefore  have  no  reason  to 
find  fault  or  be  discouraged.  One  good 
thing  is,  I  have  visited  no  point  yet,  in  the 
capacity  of  reader,  without  pleasing  those 
who  have  heard  me,  and  being  recalled  the 
second  time  at  least.  So  you  see  I  am  at 

[102] 


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least  advancing  my  reputation,  and  that  of 
course  is  "money  in  my  pocket,"  as  the  old 
phrase  goes. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  often  I  think  of  you, 
or  with  what  kindly  feeling.  I  shall  never 
forget  you,  and  you  must  never  hurt  me  by 
thinking  me  capable  of  forgetting.  You 
know  in  your  last  letter  you  almost  question 
the  strength  of  my  fidelity  —  as  though  I 
could  be  won  away  from  your  regard  by 
any  force  of  fate  or  circumstance!  I  want 
you  always  to  know  that  I  am  your  friend, 
and  that,  although  I  am  forever  to  be  denied 
the  warm  clasp  of  your  hand,  or  listen  to 
the  spoken  assurance  of  your  esteem,  still 
on  and  on  through  Time  I  yet  shall  "love 
you  better  than  you  know,"  and  pray  that 
God  will  bless  and  make  you  happy,  what 
ever  bitter  destiny  remains  for  me. 

I  wish  that  I  might  see  you  face  to  face, 
and  tell  you  just  how  pitiless  and  changeless 
is  my  fate,  and  make  plain  to  you  the  many 
seeming  paradoxes  of  my  life.  But  you 
will  understand  at  last,  if  not  now,  that  I 
am  neither  fanciful  nor  misanthropic  — 
only  most  seriously  sensible  of  the  one  great 
[103] 


fact  of  my  existence,  i.e.,  that  I  am  power 
less  to  stay  or  change  the  fate  that  hurries 
me  along  to  some  dread  desolation  of  futur 
ity.  I  try  to  believe  otherwise,  and  laugh 
lightly  oftentimes,  but  still  in  spite  of  all  I 
get  no  rest  and  am  so  tired. 

I  think  I  oughtn't  say  such  miserable 
things,  but  what  can  I  say  other  than  this  to 
my  one  best  friend  of  all  the  world?  Do  you 
know  that  you  have  been  kind  and  good  to 
me  when  I  most  needed  just  such  help, 
and  when,  too,  not  one  other  friend  of  all 
that  have  avowed  themselves  my  friends 
came  to  me  with  a  word  of  cheer  or  heart 
felt  sympathy.  And  so  it  is  that  over  and 
over  I  pray  God  to  make  you  happy,  and 
myself  more  grateful  every  day.  And  if 
ever  He  will  be  so  good  to  me,  I  want  to 
come  some  time  and  reach  this  right  hand 
out  and  grasp  your  own,  and  tell  you  in  such 
words  and  ways  that  you  will  know  are  true 
as  Heaven  —  that  I  am  indeed  your  friend 
as  you  are  mine.  God  keep  my  little  girl 
till  that  day  comes! 

I  will  enclose  with  this  a  photograph  — 
the  one  long-promised.     It  is  like  me  as  I 
[104] 


now  am,  though  I  fear  you  will  not  like  it 
even  half  so  well  as  that  old  tin-type  with 
the  mustache  and  the  sunken  cheeks. 

Please  write  to  me  at  once,  and  tell  me 
you  forgive  my  long,  long  silence.  Don't  think 
anything  of  me  but  good  —  and  though  I  am 
not  always  happy  you  must  know  your  let 
ters  make  me  happier  than  all  things  else. 

As  ever  and  always  yours, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

Indianapolis,  Ind., 

March  20,  1880. 
Dear  friend :  — 

You  are  always  so  very  patient  with  me 
that  I  fear  sometimes  I  almost  wait  too  long 
before  answering  your  letters.  Anyway, 
I  know  how  lenient  you  are,  and  when 
bothered  with  much  work  and  cares  of  other 
kinds,  I  just  think,  "I  will  put  off  writing  to 
my  good  friend  L.  Kahle  till  I'm  in  better 
humor,  and  she  will  understand." 

I  know  of  nothing  new  to  tell  you  of,  un 
less  it  be  to  say  that  my  prospects  are  grow 
ing  good  again,  —  and  for  a  long  time  they 
[1051 


have  been  anything  but  that.  Not  that  I 
have  ceased  in  any  measure  to  strive  for 
their  advancement  —  only  there  come  kinks 
and  twists  and  tangles  in  the  times,  just  as 
in  the  smoothest  silken  skeins ;  and  always 
at  such  times  I  worry,  fume  and  fret  in  spite 
of  all,  and  so  am  never  in  condition  but  to 
vex  and  still  disturb,  when  I  should  calmly 
take  things  as  I  find  them. 

I  think  the  lines  you  quote  from  Byron 
most  appropriate,  for  I  am  intensely  eager 
to  win  something  of  a  name,  since  it  would 
seem  that  all  things  else  must  be  denied. 
But  this  is  not  the  prelude  of  another  moan, 
for  I  shall  have  no  further  bitterness  to 
waste  on  Fate.  I'm  going  to  do  my  best  to 
smile  the  wrinkles  from  my  life,  and  drown 
out  all  the  discords  with  the  best  laugh  I  can 
raise. 

Your  own  life  is,  as  you  have  intimated, 
anything  but  sunshine  and  fair  weather,  and 
I  want  you  always  to  know  that  whatever  it 
has  been,  is,  or  may  be,  you  have  a  true 
friend  in  me ;  and  one,  too,  who  can  appreci 
ate  from  every  sad  experience  just  what 
it  is  to  feast  on  sorrow,  and  go  famishing 
f  1061 


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c^         , 


forever  for  the  taste  of  peace  and  utter  hap 
piness.  When  I  die  —  which  bless  God  I 
will  do  some  day  —  I  have  no  desire  at  once 
to  be  translated  to  the  Perfect  Land,  be 
cause  I  want  a  long,  long  rest  of  utter  chaos 

—  ages  of  rest  and   blank  forgetfulness, 
wherein  I  may  catch  up,  and  gratify  my 
present  vast  and  limitless  demands.     I  say 
this  with  a  half  smile  and  whole  earnestness 

—  but  still —  no  matter! 

When  you  write  me  next,  I  am  going  to 
hope  that  you  will  tell  me  more  about  all 
that  old  ache  of  yours,  so  that  I  may  reach 
out  my  hands  to  you,  and  let  you  feel  that 
they  are  warm  with  every  sympathy,  and 
tender  to  the  touch  as  are  your  own.  God 
bless  you  always,  and  God  bless  us  both, 
and  keep  us  ever  strong,  with  lifted  brows, 
and  faces  set  forever  heavenward. 

Yours, 

J.  W.  R. 

(Over).  —  Here  is  a  little  poem  I  wrote 
last  night,  and  copy  for  you  this  bright 
afternoon.  — 

[107] 


SLEEP* 

Orphaned,  I  cry  to  thee, 
Sweet  sleep :  O,  kneel  and  be 
A  mother  unto  me ! 

Calm  thou  my  childish  fears, 
And  fold  mine  eyelids  to  all  tenderly, 

And  dry  my  tears. 

Come,  Sleep,  all  drowsy-eyed 
And  faint  with  langour,  slide 
Thy  dim  face  down  beside 

Mine  own,  that  I  may  rest 
And  nestle  in  thine  arms  and  there  abide 

And  be  thy  guest. 

Good  night  to  every  care, 
And  shadow  of  despair  — 
Good  night  to  all  things  where 

Within  is  no  delight!  — 
Sleep  opens  her  dark  arms,  and  swooning 

there 
I  cry,  Good  night! 

J.  W.  RILEY 

Indianapolis,  Ind., 

April  13,  1880. 
Dear  friend :  — 

'Spect  this'll  be  an  awful  scrimpy  little 
letter,  'cause  I'm  all  unsettled,  like  your 
self,  and  tangled  up  so  with  a  thousand 

*The  text  and  punctuation  in  our  MS.  differs  considerably 
from  the  printed  version,  but  we  give  it  here  exactly  as  the 
Poet  wrote  it. 

[1031 


things.  I  was  mighty  sorry  though  to  find 
in  your  good  letter  such  an  undertone  of 
sadness  and  unrest.  Guess  we  must  get 
braver  than  we  are!  I  can  stand  my  own 
sorrows  with  more  patience  than  the  sor 
rows  of  my  friends.  And  you  are  good  to 
me,  and  have  been  always,  and  it  would 
make  me  very  glad  indeed  if  anything  that 
I  might  say  or  do  could  make  you  happier. 
I  think  so  much  of  self,  and  dwell  so  on  my 
own  needs  and  desires  that  sometimes  I  am 
more  than  half  convinced  that  I  do  others 
wrong  who  suffer  just  as  much  and  yet 
make  no  complaint.  I  know  you  must  have 
much  to  try  your  patience,  being  noble  and 
ambitious,  yet  compelled  so  long  "to  labor 
and  to  wait."  But  I  am  sure  God  must 
mean  something  by  it  all.  And  so,  dear 
friend,  we'll  smile  back  all  the  tears  and 
say  Amen  to  all  God  says.  You  think  that 
I  have  more  than  you  to  make  me  glad,  and 
keep  me  propped  securely  beneath  all  the 
burdens  Fate  can  weigh  one  with.  You 
only  think  so,  —  though  you  may  be  right, 
and  I  myself  wrong,  —  yet  I  seem  to  know 
such  utter  loneliness  as  I  pray  God  may 

[109] 


never  even  cast  its  shadow  over  you.  But 
I'm  not  going  to  cry  out  against  it  any  more. 
There!  let's  be  glad,  and  "Let  today  pass 
by  flower-crowned  and  singing." 

And  so  you're  stationed  now  in  Pittsburg, 
and  I'm  glad.  I'm  glad  of  everything  you 
do,  because  it's  always  for  the  best.  You 
are  the  wisest  little  woman  in  the  world  — 
at  least  you  seem  so  —  and  I  like  you  all 
the  better,  knowing  how  you  have  to  plan 
to  get  along  and  make  the  most  of  every 
thing,  and  yet  find  so  much  time  for  goodly 
deeds,  and  kindliness  to  others  all  about 
you. 

I've  been  hoping  all  this  busy  season 
through  that  I  might  be  fortunate  enough  to 
"lay  up"  quite  enough  money  for  an  idle 
summer,  in  which  I  might  "take  mine  ease," 
and  run  about  a  bit,  and  visit  you,  and  take 
you  by  the  hand,  and  thank  you  with  real 
living  words  for  all  your  goodness  to  me. 
But  I'm  really  afraid  I'll  have  to  work  harder 
than  ever  —  'cause  I've  been  losing  money 
as  well  as  making  it,  and  am  just  too  poor 
for  any  use  —  though  I  do  make  quite  an 
outward  show,  and  keep  my  chin  high  in 
[HOj 


the  air.  I'm  in  better  health,  too,  than  I 
ever  was  before,  and  have  just  been  fairly 
boosting  my  reputation  along !  Next  season 
—  Ah,  the  money  I  will  make !  Though  I 
may  make  quite  enough  from  this  on,  for 
my  writings  are  in  growing  demand,  and  at 
better  prices  all  the  time.  My  newest 
victory  is  the  New  York  Sun.  And  such  a 
dear  delightful  little  weenty-teenty  hearty 
letter  as  I  got  from  Mr.  Dana  the  other  day! 
I'm  going  to  contribute  regularly  to  his  old 
fat  paper,  and  they  say,  too,  that  the  Sun 
pays  higher  prices  for  its  contributions  than 
any  magazine.  I  enclose  my  first  poem  to 
them,  and  must  close  this  letter  now  to 
fashion  them  another  rythmic  something  by 
next  mail. 

Write  to  me,  and  tell  me  you  are  kindo 
happy,  anyway!  And  be  happy  anyhow, 
and  no  matter  though  neither  of  us  can  have 
the  one-tenth  part  of  all  our  needs,  let  us 
thank  God  heartily  that  He  has  made  us 
friends. 

As  ever  yours, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

fill  I 


Indianapolis,  Ind., 
May  27,  1880. 

My  dear  good  friend :  — 

As  usual  I  have  been  very  busy,  and  so 
have  neglected  your  last  briefest  of  all 
letters  a  long  time.  I  wanted,  and  did  start 
to  answer  it  the  very  day  it  came  —  for  you 
will  remember  what  a  long,  long  time  you 
kept  me  waiting  for  it.  But  God  bless  you! 
it  did  [come?]*  to  me  after  all,  and  made  me 
glad,  though  I  think  too  it  made  me  just  a 
little  sorto  sorry  as  well,  for  it  seemed  to 
bear  an  undertone  of  sadness  along  with  it, 
and  made  me  fear  that  you  were  having  a 
much  harder  time  than  you  deserve. 

The  old  problem  of  this  existence  is  al 
ways  a  worry  to  me,  when  I  think  about  it, 
only  I  try  not  to  think  about  it,  knowing  that 
the  old  order  of  labor  for  the  weak  and  rest 
for  the  strong  —  riches  for  the  undeserving 
and  poverty  for  they  of  generous  spirit  — 
cannot  be  altered,  but  must  abide  a  fixed 
law  till  Heaven  bursts  hi  blossom  on  our 


*The  original  is  clearly  written,  but  it  seems  as  if  the 
author  inadvertently  omitted  a  word,  —  perhaps  come. 

[112] 


eyes,  —  then  we'll  understand,  and  not  till 
then. 

You  have  never  told  me  yet  what  you  were 
doing,  though  that  would  matter  little  after 
all,  for  it  is  work,  and  work  of  any  kind,  God 
knows,  is  hard  enough;  though  without  it 
we  could  never  be  quite  so  noble  as  we  are, 
bent  with  the  weight  of  it.  All  we  can  do  I 
guess  is  just  to  bear  it  and  smile  anyhow  — 
that's  what  we'll  try  always  to  do,  "Won't 
we,  Pip?" 

Now  for  months  and  months,  almost,  I 
have  been  doing  but  little  in  the  progressive 
way  —  financially,  I  mean,  for  otherwise  I 
still  have  God  to  thank  for  great  success. 
That's  what  keeps  me  alive,  I  think.  I  work 
very  hard,  but  am  stronger,  and  can  stand 
the  labor  better  than  I  used. 

Nearly  two  months  ago  I  began  contribut 
ing  to  the  N.  Y.  Sun  (Sunday  issue)  and  am 
growing  in  favor  with  my  new  eastern  audi 
ence,  50  indications  say.  I  have  many 
flattering  letters  from  Mr.  C.  A.  Dana,  the 
editor,  and  will  endeavor  with  all  [my]  might 
to  be  a  lasting  favorite  of  his.  I  am  sure 
he  likes  my  work  —  though  he  sometimes 

[1131 


criticizes  pretty  sharply,  as  he  ought  to, 
of  course,  for  no  one  knows  better  than 
myself  that  I  am  anything  but  perfect  in 
my  art. 

Here  in  the  city,  your  pictures  still  smile 
down  upon  me,  and  over  and  over  I  want  to 
send  you  something  in  return,  but  I  guess 
you'll  have  to  wait  yet  a  little  longer.  Some 
time  you  will  know  that  I  have  not  forgotten. 

Summer  has  flung  wide  her  golden  gates, 
and  all  the  land  is  like  a  blooming  rose.  A 
time  for  rest  and  utter  laziness,  and  yet  we 
can't  loll  back,  nor  pause  a  minute's  space. 
But  we  can  be  glad  for  all  that,  and  we  will 
—  we  will. 

Soon  I  will  get  together  some  of  my  latest 
poems  and  send  them  —  not  many,  for  I 
haven't  written  much,  being  so  busy  with 
lecturing  business.  Next  season  in  that 
field  I  will  reap  a  great  harvest,  I  am  sure. 
Then  with  great  wads  o'  money  bursting  my 
pockets  I  will  go  through  at  least  one  sum 
mer  only  working  as  I  care  to. 

I  write  you  hastily  and  briefly.  I  can 
do  no  better  now.  I've  a  Decoration  Day 
poem  to  prepare  for  the  30th,  and  so  you 

[114] 


see  must  leave  you.  I  wring  your  two  warm 
woman's  hands,  and  so  farewell  a  little.  As 
ever, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

Indianapolis,  Ind., 

July  6,  1880. 
Dear  friend :  — 

Your  letter  of  date  June  27th  I  have  been 
forced  to  neglect  because  of  my  ever-grow 
ing  engagements  in  my  work. 

It's  almost  wrong,  I  think  with  you  some 
times,  to  work  with  the  ambition  that  I  do. 
But  I  am  so  eager  to  succeed  —  so  feverish 
in  my  desire  to  be  something  and  somebody 

—  that  my  effort  never  flags  or  falters  for  a 
minute;  but,  self-impelled,  moves  on  and 
on,  gathering  newer  force  and  power  with 
each  succeeding  hint  of  final  victory.  Hence 
it  is  that  now  I  find  myself  almost  hedged 
in  with  engagements  for  regular  contribu 
tions  for  a  dozen  different  papers,  and  con 
stant   and  unremitting  applications  to  the 
magazines  —  which,  by  the  way,  at  last  I 
have  most  refreshing  signs  of  conquering 

—  having  but  just  within  the  last  two  weeks 

[1151 


had  two  poems  accepted  by  them  —  both 
trifles  in  their  way,  but  yet  enough  to  indi 
cate  that  "the  wind  is  no  longer  in  the 
East,"  as  John  Jarndyce  would  say.  And 
for  two  or  three  months  steadily  I  have  been 
contributing  to  the  New  York  Sun  (Sunday 
issue),  where  I  am  meeting  with  a  good 
eastern  audience,  and  evidently  pleasing, 
judging  from  the  letters  I  have  received 
from  the  editor,  Mr.  Chas.  A.  Dana,  who 
evidently  is  very  kindly  disposed,  and  in 
clined  to  humor  my  vanity  in  the  stubborn 
belief  that  I  will  ultimately  win.  Now, 
there!  —  that's  all  I'll  say  about  my  selfish 
self. 

It  was  very  good  of  you  to  gratify  me  with 
some  outline  of  your  own  doings  in  the 
struggle  of  existence,  and  I  was  greatly 
interested  in  all  you  said,  though  I  could  but 
wish,  with  each  line  as  I  read,  that  I  might 
be  able  to  make  your  path  a  trifle  smoother. 
But  after  all  there's  nothing  to  do  but  take 
things  as  they  come,  and  bear  with  cheer 
fulness  all  that  seems  sent  to  vex  us  and 
annoy.  Sometimes  the  way  is  stony,  and 
the  path  so  choked  with  briars  that  our  foot- 
[1161 


prints  leave  red  stains  along  the  dust;  yet, 
thank  God,  the  way  has  never  been  so  dark 
—  nor  may  be  —  but  the  Christ  face  may 
smile  back  upon  us  from  beyond,  and  woo 
us  on  unto  the  final  good.  And  with  the 
best  encouragement  that  I  can  give,  I  pin 
right  here,  the  latest  poem  I  have  written 
for  both  our  striving  sakes.* 

I'm  a  little  troubled,  too,  thinking  your 
erratic  ramblings  in  search  of  the  "Golden 
fleece"  may  keep  this  letter  from  your 
hands,  for  you  never  told  me  where  I  should 
direct  it,  and  of  course  my  only  way  will  be 
to  use  the  old  address.  So  you  must  write 
me  if  you  do  receive  it,  for  until  I  hear  I  will 
never  rest  quite  contented  —  thinking  you 
may  think  me  even  more  neglectful  than  I 
really  am. 

And  now  I  must  close,  —  but  first  tell 
you  it  was  queer  that  the  poem  you  sent  me, 
"What  She  Thought"  has  been  a  favorite 
of  mine  for  years  —  not  many,  perhaps,  yet 
I  think  a  half  dozen  at  the  least  —  since  its 


*"The  poem  mentioned  in  the  last  line  of  third  paragraph 
of  letter  of  July  6th,  1880,  was  not  preserved,  and  I  have  no 
recollection  of  the  title."  —  From  a  signed  statement  by 
Elizabeth  Brunn,  nee  Kahle. 


117 


first  appearance  in  the  magazine  in  which 
it  first  appeared.  It  is  very  beautiful  and 
tender  and  pathetic  —  all  that's  lovable,  and 
were  the  speaker  but  the  opposite  in  sex, 
we  would  be  counterparts  in  hopelessness, 
—  since  — 

"  Questioning  thus,  my  days  go  on, 
But  never  an  answer  comes  to  me ; 

All  love's  mysteries,  sweet  and  strange, 
Sealed  away  from  my  life  must  be." 

But  like  her,  too,  I  have  much  to  live  and 
hope  for,  and  after  all,  I'm  not  quite  sure  that 
all  of  this  life's  happiness  depends  upon  just 
love.  Not  that  I'm  a  cynic,  but  I  have  seen 
so  many  —  Oh,  so  very  many — dear  friends 
that  had  been  happier  had  they  remained 
just  friends  and  never  wed  each  other. 
But  it's  a  solemn  thing  to  think  of  never 
having  one's  own  home  —  but  here  I  go 
again!  —  and  I  just  aint  goin'  to  think  about 
it  all  just  to  make  myself  more  and  more 
miserable.  I  clasp  the  warm  hand  of  my 
good  girl  and  laugh  along,  forgetful  of  all 
gloomy  things! 
And  as  "Ever  the  best  of  friends,  aint  us 

Plp?"  J.  W.  RILEY 

[118] 


Indianapolis,  Ind., 
Aug.  22,  1880. 

Dear  little  friend:  — 

Your  last  letter  has  been  neglected  a  long 
time  —  two  weeks,  I  guess,  but  I  just 
couldn't  help  myself,  —  being  hurried,  flur 
ried,  worried  all  the  time.  I  should  have 
liked  much  better  to  have  answered  at  once 
with  the  influence  of  your  words  fresh  upon 
me  —  for  the  letter  was  so  very  good  and 
cheery  like,  although  at  times  it  had  enough 
of  sadness  in  it,  too,  to  make  it  hurt  a  little. 
And  I'm  'most  afraid  the  little  girl  [is]  often 
gloomier  and  more  disconsolate  than  she 
would  have  me  know!  Well,  well,  —  you 
must  be  strong,  since  after  all,  without 
strength  there  is  very  little  in  existence  we 
could  bear  at  best. 

You're  a  queer  little  nomad,  you  are!  and 
you  can't  settle  down  into  that  "garret  of 
your  own"  any  too  soon,  'cause  I  am  grow 
ing  quite  impatient  to  visit  you,  and  will 
surely  come  some  day  when  you  least  expect 
me.  Last  year  I  fondly  hoped  I  might  go 
capering  down  your  way  —  lecturing  —  but 
f  1191 


didn't  get  a  call  within  hundreds  of  miles  of 
you,  and  now  this  season  I'm  going  to  hope 
again,  and  if  I  don't  get  an  engagement 
down  that  way,  am  at  least  going  to  try  to 
save  money  enough  out  of  it  all  to  make  a 
visit  to  you  in  the  spring  vacation.  I  have 
tolerably  "hard  lines"  through  the  summer, 
because,  although  I  write  almost  constantly, 
the  pay  as  yet  is  anything  but  munificent, 
and  besides  I  have  so  many  demands  be 
side  my  own  to  supply.  The  only  thing  left 
you  or  me  to  do  is  to  make  the  best  of  what 
the  gods  so  gingerly  bestow.  That's  what 
they  all  have  to  do  anyhow!  Sometimes 
I'm  foolish  enough  to  envy  those  who  have 
no  end  of  leisure,  wealth  "and  a'  that," 
but  am  generally  not  long  in  discovering 
my  mistake,  for  no  matter  who  they  be,  they 
always  have  some  source  of  misery  that 
poverty  alone  knows  nothing  of,  and  is  there 
fore  by  far  the  happier  state. 

You  sent  a  little  poem  to  me  that  sounded 
like  you,  'cause  it  was  "Tired"  —  as  I  know 
you  were.  Now,  don't  you  deny  it  —  for 
of  course  you  must  grow  very  weary  of  the 
dull  old  stupid  "double-double  toil  and 

[1201 


trouble"  sort  of  existence  sometimes.  It's 
natural,  but  you  mustn't  encourage  such  a 
feeling.  God  knows  the  best  is  bad  enough, 
but  it  is  simple  duty  for  us  to  meet  all  things 
bravely,  and  with  sunshine  in  our  faces, 
though  the  storm  raves  in  our  hearts.  God 
will  recompense  us  yet  for  every  ache  of 
pain  we  undergo.  And  know,  too,  always 
that  your  own  burden,  however  it  may  chafe 
and  weigh  you  down,  is  but  a  feather's 
weight  compared  with  thousands  that  are 
borne  without  a  murmur  but  of  gracious 
prayer  and  patient  faith  that  God's  ways, 
however  strange  to  us,  are  always  for  the 
best. 

The  summer  has  been  a  very  trying  one 
for  me.  That  is,  it's  been  simply  like  every 
other  summer,  —  only  with  less  rest  in  it, 
—  but  I'm  growing  more  and  more  content, 
I  think,  and  willing  to  accept  things,  good 
and  bad  alike,  with  proper  patience  and 
appropriate  thankfulness.  I'm  at  least  mov 
ing  a  little  toward  the  far  height  I  have 
fixed  upon  for  [the]  perch  of  my  ambition. 

Yesterday,  I  had  the  nicest  letter  imagin 
able  from  Ella  Farman,  editor  of  that 

[121] 


delightful  Child's  Magazine,  Wide  Awake. 
She  likes  a  little  poem  I  offered  her,  but 
must  have  a  more  appropriate  verse  by  way 
of  ending,  etc.,  etc.,  and  so  I  wrote  as  she 
directed,  and  am  almost  certain  it  will  please 
her.  It  is  a  little  jingle  called  "The  Land 
of  Used-to-Be,"  and  you  may  keep  an  eye 
out  for  it,  and  when  it  appears,  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  it  —  though  I  know  you'll  like 
it. 

And  you  asked  me  if  I  wrote  a  poem  you 
saw,  called  "Delilah."  Perhaps  so.  I 
wrote,  about  a  year  ago,  a  poem  of  that  title, 
though  there  may  be  others  of  that  same 
title  better  than  mine. 

Did  the  one  you  saw  begin :  — 


I  loved  her,  why  I  never  knew  — 
Perhaps,  because  her  face  was  fair; 

Perhaps,  because  her  eyes  were  blue, 
And  wore  a  weary  air. 


If  so,  I  wrote  it  —  and  you  must  not  be 
jealous,  as  you  say,  because  poets,  to  inter 
pret  all  things  as  their  mission,  must  often 
times  be  sorry  dogs  themselves.  However, 
[122] 


I  must  not  let  you  think  that  I  ever  have 
loved  seriously  visions  only;  one  part  of 
my  life  has  been  seriously  scarred  with 
dissipation  —  as  I  think  I  have  often  inti 
mated  to  you,  because  I  would  never  wil 
fully  attempt  the  denial  of  any  fact,  however 
unpleasant  the  acknowledgment  of  it  would 
be.  You  will  know  that  I  will  be  glad 
always  of  your  friendship,  and  that  mine  for 
you  is  now  as  always,  and  God  bless  us 
every  one! 

J.  W.  RILEY 


Indianapolis,  Ind., 

Oct.  6,  1880. 

Dear  friend :  — 

And  so  you  wonder  if  I  have  really  missed 
you  since  you  wrote  last?  Well,  I  really 
have,  and  what  is  more,  I  am  growing  more 
and  more  mystified  over  your  strange  ways 
all  the  time.  Just  a  week  or  so  since,  the 
little  picture  came  —  the  queer  little  "Crink- 
um-crankum"  girl,  which  you  have  always 
[123] 


insisted  is  like  you.*  And  you  are  a  queer 
little  "Crinkum-crankum" girl, sure  enough; 
and,  to  be  dead-honest  now,  I'm  glad  you 
are.  I  wouldn't  give  the  snap  of  my  thumb 
for  just  ordinary  little  girls.  The  world  is 
full  of  them  —  and  they,  in  consequence, 
are  not  novel  —  so,  my  dear  little  "Mar 
chioness,"  I  am  werry  proud  o'  you  —  werry 
proud  indeed!  But  what  I  was  going  on 
to  say,  was  —  Here  came  the  picture,  and 
the  briefest  note  saying  for  me  not  to  write 
till  I  heard  from  you  again  —  that  you  were 

*"The  little  picture  referred  to  in  first  paragraph  of  letter 
of  October  6th,  1880,  and  designated  as  the  'little  Crinkum- 
crankum  girl,'  was  a  small  imitation  burntwood  of  a  little 
girl  with  sunbonnet,  bearing  the  title  'Looking  for  Jimmy,' 
which  I  sent  him  at  that  time. 

I  might  here  explain  that  the  constant  allusions  to  my 
poverty  came  about  from  the  fact  that  in  my  letters  I  mis 
represented  to  him  my  real  financial  condition  —  which 
was,  that  while  not  rich,  I  enjoyed  from  my  father  a  sufficient 
allowance  to  supply  every  ordinary  want;  but  believing  he 
would  better  appreciate  me  and  my  letters,  I  throughout  the 
correspondence  maintained  the  attitude  of  not  absolute  but 
near  poverty,  and  having  to  live  in  meager  quarters  on  a 
small  income  which  I  myself  earned;  this  was  in  order  that 
he  himself,  being  poor,  would  believe  me  to  be  more  sym 
pathetic  with  his  actual  condition  and  aspirations. 

The  reference  in  latter  part  of  first  paragraph,  to  being  'on 
the  wing,'  and  not  to  write  until  he  heard  from  me  again, 
came  about  through  an  ambition  that  grew  out  of  my  isola 
tion  at  New  Brighton,  and  a  desire  to  do  something  in  the 
world  —  which  led  to  my  going  to  Pittsburgh  and  working 
in  the  Fort  Pitt  Glass  House,  where  they  did  china  painting, 
in  which  I  wished  to  perfect  myself."  —  Signed  statement 
by  Elizabeth  Brunn,  nee  Kahle. 

[1241 


"on  the  wing,"  so  to  speak  —  as  our  dear 
old  "Doctor  Marigold"  would  say, — 

"North  and  south,  and  west  and  east, 
Winds  liked  best,  and  winds  liked  least; 
Here  and  there  and  gone  astray 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away."  — 

And  there  was  really  no  telling  where  you 
would  anchor  —  or  when.  Now  I  thought 
that  was  odd  —  kindo  piques  a  fellow  like 
me  to  be  told  not  to  write,  when  I'm  so 
used  to  being  asked,  nay  even  coaxed  and 
pled  with  to  do  just  the  opposite  —  and  by 
the  very  smilingest  of  all  imaginable  girls 
and  the  most  anxiousest  too!  —  not  that 
I'm  at  all  handsome,  or  even  good-looking, 
but  because — because — I  hardly  know 
why  the  silly  things  will  act  so  —  but  they 
do  act  so,  —  and  perhaps  it  is  for  that  very 
indefinable  reason  that  I  —  don't  write  to 
them  if  there's  any  possible  way  out  of  it  — 
Now!  —  And  I  like  this  shabby  little  girl, 
turning  her  back  toward  me,  and  staring 
wistfully  the  other  way,  better  than  all  the 
others,  however  daintily  they  dress  and  tilt 
their  smirking  faces  up  to  mine.  Fact  is, 
[1251 


I  am  sure  you  are  a  good  girl,  though  you 
do  say  you  are  not  so  good  as  I  am.  You 
can't  say  that,  though,  in  anything  like  a 
convincing  way  to  me,  for  I  know  you  are 
worth  a  thousand  of  me,  —  God  bless  you! 
Yes,  I  am  truly  glad  you  are  back  home 
again.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  you  out  in 
the  great  coarse,  rasping  world.  It's  a 
horrible  place  to  be,  and  a  place,  too,  where 
we  are  apt  to  lose  our  gentler  natures  —  and 
with  every  reason.  And  however  poor  your 
home  is,  always  rest  content  with  it,  know 
ing  that  "To  stay  at  home  is  best."  — 

"Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest, 
Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest. 
O'er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and  fly 
A  hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky  — 
To  stay  at  home  is  best" 

And  when  I  do  come,  —  as  I  really  am  going 
to  try  very  hard  to  do  sometime,  —  I  want 
to  find  you — At  Home.  Wish  you  might 
see  my  home  —  if  for  no  other  reason  but 
that  the  contrast  would  make  your  own  so 
much  brighter  —  'cause  my  home  is  in  no 
wise  even  worthy  of  the  name.  It's  the 
[1261 


place  I  never  go  to  but  when  absolutely 
forced  to  by  the  fear  that  if  I  don't  the  out 
side  world  will  know  how  really  miserable 
a  place  it  is.  —  But  I  must  back  to  my 
adopted  motto.  — 


" Whistle  and  hoe, 
Sing  as  you  go, 
Shorten  the  row 
By  the  songs  you  know!1 


And  you've  got  lots  o'  things  to  explain  to 
me  —  eh?  Well,  as  to  that,  you  need  ex 
plain  nothing  whatever,  for  I  am  almost 
certain  that  I  know  already  everything  you 
would  have  me  —  and  I  like  you  all  the 
better  for  everything  in  your  life. 

But  I  am  not  at  all  a  political  sort  o'  fellow 
—  as  you  suspect  from  the  "Drum"  poem. 
But  I  am  at  times  a  trifle  patriotic.  You 
guessed  the  right  side,  though,  when  you 
set  me  in  among  the  Garfield  guards.  I 
take  no  open  part  whatever,  but  like  the 
Republicans,  simply,  I  think,  because  they 
helped  God  to  liberate  the  slaves.  That  is 
the  grand  first  principle. 
[1271 


I  have  sent  you  two  or  three  papers  re 
cently,  —  to  your  old  Pittsburgh  address, 
—  hope  you'll  get  them,  if  you  haven't  al 
ready.  I  opened  here  some  weeks  ago  to 
a  fine  audience,  and  I  think  among  the 
papers  sent  you  printed  account  of  the  suc 
cess  of  it.  I  anticipate  a  more  fortunate 
season  than  last,  but  of  course  may  be 
disappointed.  However,  I  shall  not  moan 
any  more. 

The  magazine  poems  you  say  you  have 
not  seen  —  neither  have  I.  They  have  not 
been  published  yet  —  though  I  look  for  them 
next  month.  One  in  St.  Nicholas,  and  one 
in  Wide  Awake.  The  first  is  simply  non 
sense  jingle,  but  the  Wide  Awake  poem 
(the  first  of  two  that  they  accepted,  called 
"The  Land  of  Used-to-be"),  I  am  sure  you 
will  like. 

And  now  I  must  close.  I  would  like  to 
write  more,  but  I  just  can't  —  I  am  so 
tangled.  You  will  know  I  always  think 
pages  and  pages  more  than  I  can  tell  you. 

In  your  next  you  may  tell  me  if  you  would 
like  a  very  flattering  lithograph  of  this  plain 
face  of  mine,  and  if  you  do  I  will  gladly  send 

[128] 


it  —  even  it  is  far  from  good-looking,  but 
it's  got  my  tilt  o'  the  head,  and  I'm  vain  of 
that,  and  want  you  to  see  it. 
As  ever  and  always, 

Your  true  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

Indianapolis, 
November  19,  1880. 

My  dear  good  friend :  — 

Your  last  letter  is  best  of  all  letters  —  it 
is,  and  I'd  like  to  devote  hours  and  hours 
to  the  answer  it  deserves,  but  have  only 
seconds  now  at  command,  and  brief  ones 
too. 

I  am  preparing  for  the  road  again,  and 
with  some  promise  of  better  success  than 
I  met  with  last  season.  Fact  is,  I  really 
think  I'm  going  to  make  a  little  money. 
Want  you  to  pray  for  me  anyhow — 'cause  I 
do  so  need  it.  I'm  glad  all  the  time  that 
you're  at  home  —  that's  the  place  for  little 
girls,  you  know,  and  then,  I  might  sometime 
go  way  down  there  to  see  you,  and  it  'ud 
be  awful  if  you  wasn't  there — wouldn't  it? 
[129] 


I  just  say  these  words  to  wedge  in  with 
the  picture — and  a  thousand  thanks  for  the 
space  you  reserve  for  it  —  God  bless  you 
and  keep  you  smiling  till  I  write.  As  ever, 

J.  W.  R. 

Indianapolis,  Ind., 

March  15,  1881. 
Dear  friend  Lizzie :  — 

I  fear  I  have  been  really  neglecting  you  a 
little,  but  you  must  know  how  selfish  I  am, 
and  how  feverish  it  makes  me  to  be  always 
striving  after  so  much  and  attaining  so  little. 
This  is  all  the  word  of  excuse  I  will  offer, 
and  I  know  you'll  understand. 

And  I'm  very  glad  indeed  to  think  you 
have  missed  me  all  this  while.  Truly,  I 
think  such  friends  as  we  have  grown  to  be 
—  so  oddly,  too,  and  never  having  seen  each 
other  —  are  quite  as  necessary  to  each  other 
as  they  whose  hands  are  often  clasped,  and 
who  sit  face  to  face  so  many  happy  times, 
forgetful  of  all  things  that  ache  and  pain. 
But  we  must  still  go  on,  I  guess,  each  won 
dering  if  the  other  is  as  we  have  pictured  to 
[130] 


ourselves;  and,  if  so,  longing  for,  at  least 
a  sight  —  a  word  —  a  touch.  Perhaps,  dear 
little  friend,  this  may  be  all  the  mutual  joy 
God  has  intended  for  us.  I  often  think  so, 
and  I  often  at  such  times  try  the  comfort  in 
the  old  lines  of  Lowell's  —  and  you  must 
speak  them  with  me,  with  a  trust  so  warm 
and  bright  that  I  will  find  it  still  unfading  on 
your  lips  though  I  look  not  on  your  face  till 
Heaven  is  ours :  — 

"Of  all  the  myriad  moods  of  mind 

That  through  the  soul  come  thronging, 
Which  one  was  e'er  so  dear,  so  kind, 

So  beautiful  as  longing? 
The  things  we  long  for,  that  we  are 

For  one  transcendent  moment 
Before  the  Present,  poor  and  bare, 

Can  make  its  sneering  comment. 

O  would  we  know  the  heart's  full  scope 

Which  we  are  hourly  wronging, 
Our  lives  must  climb  from  hope  to  hope 

To  realize  our  longing.  — 
To  let  the  new  life  in,  we  know 

Desire  must  ope  the  portal  .  .  . 
Perhaps  the  longing  to  be  so 

Helps  make  the  soul  immortal."  -— 

Anyway,   we   must   be   glad,    whatever 
comes  —  whatever  stays  away.    And,  there, 

[131] 


now!  that's  enough  of  sorrowful  specu 
lation.  So  be  glad  with  me  —  or,  rather, 
affect  to,  and  compel  a  gladness  that  with 
patient  humoring,  at  last  will  learn  to  love 
you  better  all  the  time,  and  so  abide  with 
you  through  every  ill.  And  to  start  out 
with,  you  must  be  glad  to  have  me  tell  you 
that  your  letters  are  just  the  opposite  from 
being  "unendurably  monotonous,"  as,  evi 
dently,  hi  one  of  your  "horribly  blue  moods" 
you  have  been  trying  to  persuade  yourself. 
And  however  "vain"  you  may  acknowledge 
yourself,  I'm  still  vainer,  don't  you  see? 
And  I'm  going  to  positively  forbid  your  read 
ing  that  misanthropic  old  Byron,  whose  dark 
foreboding,  cheerless  mutterings  you  some 
times  quote  to  me ;  and,  instead,  command 
you  to  read  my  dear,  rare,  lovable  Long 
fellow —  who,  however  sad  he  gets,  can 
always  see  a  glorious  promise  somewhere 
on  beyond. 

I'm  awful  proud  when  you  tell  me  of 
meeting  those  who  know  me  "as  my  works 
have  been,"  and  am  sure  I  would  like  Mr. 
Douthitt  as  you  so  pleasantly  describe  him. 

And  here  I  am  at  the  end  of  both  my  space 
[132] 


and  time.  Now  will  you  just  go  on  in  fancy 
with  all  the  other  pages  I  would  like  to  write 
to  you  —  'cause  I  do  want  to  write  many, 
many  more.  And  I  want  you,  too,  to  just 
go  on  with  your  drawing  class  —  your 
home-work  —  or,  as  the  funny  man  hi  the 
"Screaming  Farce"  would  say,  "Your  do 
mestic  avocations"  —  only  finding  time  to 
write  me  a  little  oftener  than  you  do. 

As  ever  and  always,  yours, 

J.  W.  RILEY 


Indianapolis, 

June  23, 1881 
Dear  friend :  — 

Seems  to  me  like  ages  since  I  have  written 
to  you,  though  I  have  not  forgotten  you  for 
an  hour  in  all  that  tune.  I  have  been  very, 
very  busy,  and  through  much  of  the  long 
silence  have  been  fretted  and  worried  be 
yond  measure.  Now,  however,  I  am  glad 
to  tell  you  that  all  is  untangling  once  more, 
and  my  ever-promising  prospects  are  more 
promising  than  ever  hi  my  life  before. 
[1331 


I  am  busy  now,  aside  from  the  daily 
drudge-work  I  cannot  escape,  elaborating 
a  scheme  to  get  East  the  coming  lecture 
season.  May  not  succeed,  but  am  almost 
assured  that  I  will,  and  that,  too,  under  the 
most  flattering  circumstances. 

Do  not  expect  a  letter  this  time.  I  can  at 
best  but  write  a  page  or  two,  but  you  will 
know,  for  all  that,  that  I  do  the  very  all-in- 
all  in  my  power.  Life  and  circumstance 
have  not  been  very  friendly  toward  me  for 
a  long,  long  while,  but  they  are  growing 
gentler,  I  believe,  all  the  time;  and  so 
though  not  a  pampered  favorite  of  theirs  by 
any  means,  I  can  but  feel  that  I  am  slowly 
and  surely  ingratiating  myself  into  their 
higher  favor. 

Is  there  anything  newer  to  tell  you?  I 
am  so  ashamed  at  times  writing  to  you  of 
nothing  but  myself  —  myself  —  Myself! 
But  you  must  forgive  it  all,  since  for  years 
my  hunger  and  ambition  have  made  [me] 
think  of  little  else.  I  want  to  succeed  — 
I  must.  I  could  do  such  worlds  of  good 
if  I  were  rich  —  and  that  good,  too,  that  I 
positively  owe  to  others. 
[134] 


The  city  here  is  very  dull  and  stupid  just 
now.  It  is  dry  and  harsh  and  parched. 
There  is  no  juice  in  it,  and  sometimes  I 
absolutely  stifle.  Is  it  well  with  my  little 
friend  down  there  at  her  old  home?  You 
think  it  a  dull  place  sometimes,  and  the  old 
ache  comes  in  your  throat,  I  know  —  but 
bless  you,  little  friend,  the  world  is  ten  times 
worse,  and  it  does  jostle  so!  and  O  the  thou 
sand  and  one  little  mean  treacheries  one 
meets !  To  escape  them  and  ride  over  them 
and  trample  them  down  —  down  —  down 
where  they  belong,  one  must  have  the 
money-scepter  in  one's  fist.  Then  be  a 
king  indeed. 

Will  you  always  think  kindly  of  me?  — 
True  friends  are  so  refreshing,  being  so  rare. 
You  are  my  true  friend  and  I  am  yours  —  in 
fact  —  "Ever  the  best  of  friends  — aint  us 
Pip?"  God  bless  you,  and  good-bye  a  little 
while. 

As  ever, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

I  will  copy  my  last  poem  on  next  page  for 
you. — 

[135] 


BABY'S  DYING 

Baby's  dying! 
Do  not  stir : 

Let  her  spirit  lightly  float 
Through  the  sighing 
Lips  of  her  — 

Still  the  murmur  in  the  throat  — 
Let  the  moan  of  grief  be  curbed  — 
Baby  must  not  be  disturbed! 

Baby's  dying! 
Do  not  stir : 

Let  her  pure  lif  e  lightly  swim 
Through  the  sighing 
Lips  of  her  — 

Out  from  us  and  up  to  Him  — 
Let  her  leave  us  with  that  smile  — 
Kiss  and  miss  her  after  while! 

J.  W.  R. 

June  22,  '81, 


Indianapolis,  Ind., 

August  9,  1881. 
Dear  friend :  — 

Your  last  good  letter  has  been  neglected 
for  more  than  a  week.  I  wanted  to  write 
at  once  upon  receipt  of  it,  but  could  not  pos 
sibly —  I  am  so  bothered  and  crowded 
every  way.  It  seems  that  the  further  on  in 
[1361 


life  I  get  the  greater  my  trials.  This  is  not 
as  it  should  be,  for  one  so  fondly  hopes  (and 
justly)  that  rest  is  somewhere  on  ahead,  and 
to  find  no  rest  whatever,  but  instead  still 
newer  complications  of  tasks  and  trials  is 
most  pathetic  and  disheartening,  —  isn't  it? 
In  that  particular  I  think  our  two  experiences 
must  bear  quite  a  likeness  —  only  your 
capacity  of  patience  so  exceeds  my  own  that 
I  look  upon  you  enviously,  and  would  most 
gladly  exchange  with  you. 

There  is  no  new  thing  to  tell  you  of,  only 
that  there  is  a  faint  hope  of  my  getting  East 
the  coming  season.  I  have  just  received 
word  from  the  Redpath  Lyceum  Bureau 
that  my  name  will  be  on  their  lists,  and  for 
me  to  at  once  prepare  my  circular,  and  send 
a  circular  containing  my  programme,  press- 
nities  [press  notices?]  and  personal  letters 
of  favor  and  compliment  from  such  celebri 
ties  as  Governors,  Senators,  Authors,  etc., 
as  I  may  be  able  to  interest  in  my  behalf. 
These  will  be  headed  by  one  from  Mr.  Bur- 
dette,  of  the  Hawkeye,  who  has  already 
been  of  vast  service  to  me,  and  of  whose 
friendship  I  am  assured  for  many  reasons. 
[137] 


Of  course  I  am  anxious  as  to  the  result. 
In  the  meantime,  I  am  forced  to  be  at  other 
work  —  not  only  verse-carpentering,  but 
editorial  work  as  well  —  this  latter  being 
more  lucrative  to  me  and  satisfactory  to  the 
public,  but  very  trying  indeed,  since  I  take 
no  delight  in  it,  but  shrink  from  it  with 
almost  positive  aversion. 

I  write  hurriedly.  I  can  do  but  this. 
When  you  told  me  you  had  scarce  two  let 
ters  from  me  in  a  long  year's  time,  I  felt 
justly  rebuked;  but,  my  dear  friend,  could 
you  know  my  unfortunate  temperament  and 
surroundings  I  know  you  would  forgive  me 
without  the  asking. 

God  bless  you  and  keep  you  always  happy, 
is  the  sincere  prayer  of 

Your  less  fortunate  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

Indianapolis,  Ind., 

September  10,  1881. 
Dear  friend  of  mine :  — 

I  can  write  you,  in  answer  to  your  long, 
good  letter,  but  a  few  lines.     Will  you 
1 138  1 


understand?  I  am  particularly  busy,  get 
ting  in  readiness  for  the  coming  lecture 
season,  —  being,  at  last,  nearing  my  ambi 
tion,  and  engaged  by  the  Redpath  Lyceum 
Bureau,  Boston,  sponsored  by  Robt.  J.  Bur- 
dette,  "The  Hawkey e  Man."  —  Soon  I  will 
forward  you  scheme  of  this  season's  pro 
gramme.  Till  I  get  a  breathing  space  I  can 
scarce  hope  to  have  a  word  for  you.  When 
any  promise  of  success,  be  sure  I  will  let 
you  know.  Everything  with  me  is  particu 
larly  flattering  and  I  am  feverish  with  im 
patience,  being  starved  for  so  long! 

This  is  but  a  word.  You  must  interpret 
it.  God  bless  you  —  me  —  all  who  so  need 
it.  As  ever  and  always, 

Your  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

P.  S.  —  I  am  particularly  engaged  with 
humorous  editorial  matter,  which  seems  to 
be  taking  well,  and  pays  better  than  verse. 
Hence  more  of  it  now  than  the  latter.  I 
enclose  specimen  from  today's  issue. 

[139] 


Indianapolis,  Ind., 

December  13,  1881. 
Dear  friend :  — 

Won't  you  tell  me  where  you  are,  and  how 
you  are,  and  what  you  are  doing?  Long 
ago  you  said,  if  I  were  silent  for  a  long  time 
you  would  know,  without  any  explanation 
from  me,  that  I  was  too  busy,  and  couldn't 
write.  I  hope  you  have  not  forgotten,  and 
I  hope  too  that  all  this  time  you  have  been 
finding  that  excuse  for  me.  I  have  been 
working  very  hard  indeed,  and  am  glad  to 
tell  you,  as  I  think  you  will  be  glad  to  hear, 
that  my  more  than  ordinary  industry  is 
meeting  with  a  more  than  ordinary  reward. 
I  have  been  devoting  nearly  all  my  time 
toward  the  lecture,  and  being  now  under 
management  as  above  [Redpath  Lyceum 
Bureau]  and  in  splendid  and  ever-growing 
favor  with  the  bureau,  my  prospects  are 
very,  very  bright. 

As  yet,  I  have  been  filling  Western  en 
gagements  only,  but  leave  for  the  East  the 
latter  part  of  this  month,  —  my  first  engage 
ment, —  in  all  probability  at  Tremont 
Temple,  Boston. 

[1401 


I  have  only  time  to  tell  you  of  my  good 
fortune,  and  to  enclose  to  you  a  gruesome 
little  sketch  that  I  happened  upon  not  long 
ago  while  "on  the  road." 

I  will  be  particularly  glad  to  have  a  word 
from  you,  and  you  must  so  gratify  me. 
Address  as  always,  and  if  not  in  the  city  here 
when  it  arrives,  it  will  be  forwarded  to  me. 

As  ever, 

Your  faithful  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 


Indianapolis,  Ind., 

Jan.  18,  1882. 
Dear  friend :  — 

Well  —  I  have  been  East,  conquered, 
and  am  back  again,  without  the  ghost  of  a 
chance  to  stop  and  see  you  on  the  way.  I 
had  hoped  that  I  would  have  full  leisure  to 
find  you,  either  going  or  coming,  but  being 
delayed  in  Boston  some  days,  in  order  to 
avail  myself  of  Club  invitations,  it  so  hurried 
me  to  make  Western  engagements,  I  hadn't 
a  minute  on  the  home-way  when  I  started. 
[Hi] 


But  I  am  to  have  other  Eastern  engage 
ments,  and  will  hope  then  to  find  the  oppor 
tunity  so  long  denied.  Fact  is,  I  am  becom 
ing  just  a  trifle  popular,  and  with  a  growing 
tendency  in  that  direction.  I  can't  write 
more  now.  I  sent  you  papers.  Did  you 
get  them?  They  will  tell  you  all  my  suc 
cesses,  etc.,  etc. 

As  ever  your  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 


Greenfield,  Ind., 
December  31,  1882. 

Dear  friend:  — 

I  have  forgotten  nothing,  as  you  seem  to 
think,  —  only  it  seems  the  last  year  with 
me  has  been  a  long  numb  spell  —  an  un 
ending  lethargy,  —  however  I  have  tried 
to  fancy  it  had  any  life  in  it,  or  one  thrill  of 
glory  left.  Your  memory  has  been  with  me 
all  the  time  —  but  I  could  do  nothing  to 
deserve  it  —  feeling  and  knowing  you  were 
better  without  my  friendship.  Sometimes 
I  feel  sure  I  am  good,  but  the  sensation  is  a 

[1421 


yvw^K 


^tUuj* 


Xvrt 

fcolH^viUl 
~V        ^L 


ot  ^1^      -A«L  —  ^v< 

*  ^^ 

<*-^5Lu         (lliy^iJlU/  >V<vX^a 

^          O 


\£|  >A,\~       A        VWcj^wA^  \^  IAX^        \AA>*T-V^^      VV\ 

"^^^     H 

*?^M^cf         U»^M^,       V^>-         V>i 
Qv>V.«LA          IHr^ArVv-«u         c^^cJ^       ^^Cv^x^V^.  w 
^UM     ^/U 

C^^t          U^rt^^^        cr4 

J  V 

v     i  \ 

tic^.     ix^>-  "^X)^**^ 

V4vr^-    2   *>-*        **         V^  ^ 

<  -f     u  J 

t\Vtr  V  v  ^ 


rare  one  and  as  years  go  by  it  comes  at 
longer  intervals  and  stays  for  briefer  spells 
—  until,  at  last,  I  am  left  vainly  crying,  "Is 
there  a  way  to  forget  to  think!"  I  am  still 
meeting  with  more  and  more  success,  but 
that  seems  even  more  pitilessly  pathetic 
than  the  old-time  agony  of  effort  and  hunger 
for  it.  What  is  to  become  of  it  all  I  hardly 
care  —  I  am  only  stoically  waiting  for  the 
issue * 

But  I  thank  you  more  than  I  can  tell  you 
for  all  your  kindness  to  me,  and  envy  you 
for  your  great  bravery  and  patience.  Your 
character  in  my  eyes  stands  level  with  any 
heroine  of  History.  God  loves  you  for  it, 
and  protects  and  keeps  you,  as  I  pray  He 
may  for  all  time  from  here  to  Heaven. 

The  beautiful  vases  came,  but  one  was 
broken  —  that  one  is  me!  The  other  is 
yourself,  so  it  is  very  good  to  look  upon,  and 
I  have  brought  it  home,  where  all  my  best 
things  are,  together  with  your  pictures  — 
and  they  gladden  all  the  gloom  of  the  old 
home  that  needs  them  so.  Soon  I  want  to 
send  something  of  like  worth  to  you,  but 

"The  dots  appear  in  the  MS.,  —  nothing  has  been  omitted. 
[143] 


when  and  where  I  will  find  it  I  cannot  guess 

—  but  must  count  on  your  patience  again. 
Day  after  The  New  Year,  which  I'm  going 

to  try  to  love,  I  start  for  Ohio  engagements 

—  Then  for  the  East  again ;  and,  if  ever  I 
can  come,  I'll  come  to  New  Brighton  again.* 

Hoping  that  the  New  Year  may  be  as  good 
to  you  as  you  have  been  to  me,  I  am  as  ever, 

Your  sincere  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

January,  1883. 
A  Happy  New  Year! 

Dear  Little  Girl:  — 

Here  on  this  glad  New  Year's  Day  comes 
your  beautiful  gift.  You  are  so  very  good 
to  me  —  so  very,  very  good.  I  am  all  grati 
tude  ;  but  that  doesn't  half  express  my  feel 
ings;  and  I  fear  I  never  can,  as  I  would  so 
like  to.  God  bless  you  always,  and  don't 

*Mrs.  Brunn  (nee  Kahle)  says  that  sometime  in  1882 
Riley  called  on  her,  and  that  thereafter  he  made  two  more 
calls,  about  a  year  apart.  It  may  be  inferred  that  at  the  first 
meeting  they  were  both  more  or  less  disillusioned,  though 
Riley's  last  letters  are  not  without  a  tone  of  ardency,  and  he 
seemed  disinclined  to  break  off  their  relationship.  —  ED. 

[144] 


let  you  die  till  I  go  on  before  to  plan  some 
sweet  surprise  for  you  that  Heaven  had 
never  thought  of  without  me. 

I  can  only  write  this  little  page,  but  you 
will  know  how  everything  is  hurrying  me. 
As  ever  your  true  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

Indianapolis,  Ind., 

February  10,  1883. 
My  dear  friend :  — 

Your  good  letter  meets  me  here,  just  as 
I  am  returning  from  the  far  West,  and  how 
glad  I  am  to  hear  from  you  again!  Now  I 
can  explain  to  you  my  long  silence  since  last 
seeing  you  and  promising  to  write.  Your 
address,  which  I  then  took  down  in  pencil 
hastily,  I  lost  in  some  way,  and  never  being 
able  to  find  or  recall  it,  I  of  course  could  not 
write  —  though  over  and  over  again  I 
wanted  to. 

There  was  something  indefinable  in  your 
manner  (although  you  appeared  quite  happy 
and  content)  that  someway  impressed  me 
with  the  belief  that  you  were  neither  happy 
nor  pleased  with  the  world  or  myself  —  and 
[145] 


I  have  so  much  wanted  to  write  and  try  to 
make  you  cheerier.  Now  that  your  letter 
and  address  is  here,  I  can  speak  to  you 
again  —  though  I  cannot  tell  you  with  what 
great  delight  and  eagerness.  You're  a 
noble,  brave,  good  girl  —  the  gentlest  wo 
man,  and  the  truest  friend,  so  you  must  try 
with  me  still  to  be  hopeful  and  not  believe 
the  world  as  worthless  as  it  sometimes 
seems. 

Twice  since  I  saw  you  last  I  have  stopped 
in  Pittsburgh  —  but  how  could  I  hope  to 
find  you?  The  disappointment  made  me 
very  miserable,  dear  friend,  and  yet  at  the 
selfsame  time  you  were  doubtless  thinking 
I  was  forgetting  you.  As  your  friendship 
is  most  loyal,  so  is  mine.  Always  remember 
this  —  and  that  there  is  a  God  and  a  most 
merciful  Father  who  loves  His  children  all, 
I  am  assured,  and  you  must  believe  with  me. 
Of  course  we  are  tried  here  —  so  heavily 
burdened  and  bowed  down  that  we  must 
cry  out  sometimes,  but  always  we  may  steal 
off  in  the  dark  and  nestle  our  wet  faces  in 
our  pillows,  fancying  we  are  once  more  lean 
ing  at  the  mother's  knee,  and  that  the  dear 

[1461 


old  tender  face  is  still  above  us,  and  the 
warm  sweet  soothing  hands  are  touching 
hair  and  brow,  and  bringing  back  the  simple, 
childish  faith  inherited  of  her.  God  bless 
us  and  make  us  stronger  hi  this  glad  belief. 
We  must  not  be  cast  down.  You  have 
always  seemed  so  patient  —  so  steadfast  — 
so  abiding  in  your  trust  in  the  Good,  that 
now  it  would  be  terrible  to  see  you  anything 
but  just  the  same  glad  sermon  of  the  woman 
that  you  are.  And  if  you,  now,  will  promise 
me  to  so  strive  to  remain  hopeful  and  strong 
and  glad,  I  will  answer  your  request,  and 
promise  you  to  give  up  the  evil  thing  that 
has  been  killing  me.  Shall  we  not  strike 
hands  on  this?  Yes! 

Your  reference  to  your  will  touched  me 
very  deeply.  You  must  not  think  me  so 
helpless,  my  dear  friend.  You  must  not 
make  a  child  of  me  like  that.  I  bless  you 
for  your  goodness,  and  the  Christ-like  kind 
liness  of  your  interest,  but  you  must  make 
me  stronger  —  not  weaker.  May  I  come 
and  see  you  soon?  I  will  be  going  East 
again  shortly,  and  would  like  so  to  see  and 
talk  with  you.  Write  me  that  you  are 
[147] 


happier  and  stronger,  and  the  world  is  bet 
ter  and  brighter  all  the  time.    As  always, 

Your  true  friend, 

J.  W.  RILEY 

Indianapolis,  Ind., 

February  25,  1884. 
Dear  friend :  — 

Am  home  again  for  a  brief  time,  but  find 
no  letter  from  you,  as  I  had  hoped  to  find  in 
waiting.  Why  have  you  not  written?  Did 
you  not  get  my  last  in  prompt  answer  to 
yours  mailed  February  5th? 

I  have  been,  and  still  am,  very  busy,  and 
now  can't  tell  you  how  pleased  I  would  be 
to  hear  some  pleasant  word  of  you.  Please 
write  me  here  —  and,  if  away,  it  will  be 
forwarded. 

An  after-dinner  speech*  —  my  very  latest 
attempt  at  anything  approaching  the  liter 
ary —  I  enclose,  hoping,  my  dear  friend, 
something  in  it  will  please  you. 

As  ever, 
J.  W.  RILEY 

*Mrs.  Brunn  says  she  did  not  preserve  this  speech. 
[148] 


Greenfield,  Ind., 

June  26,  1884.* 
Dear  friend  :  — 

I  have  been  quite  ill,  and  am  now  little 
better,  but  improving.  I  am  glad  indeed 
to  get  your  little  '  'Grandma"  letter,  but 
can't  tell  by  it  whether  you  have  moved 
from  or  to  568  Fifth  Ave.,  [Pittsburgh]  and 
have  no  letters  of  yours  here  that  I  may 
refer  to,  to  put  me  right.  This  is  to  tell  you 
only  this,  as  I  can  only  lie  propped  in  bed 
and  have  nothing  in  my  head  anyhow  but 
aches.  I  address  and  send  this  as  I  do 
knowing  that  whether  old  or  new  address, 
Mrs.  Matthews  will  get  it,  and  present  to 
you. 

By  the  time  I  hear  your  reply  I  think  I 
will  be  real  well  again  —  then  will  write  you 
something  worthier.  Never  you  think  the 
sore-fingered  grandboy  forgets! 

As  ever,  w  R 


*Mrs.  Brunn  states  that  this  letter  was  received  shortly 
after  her  marriage,  and  that  she  did  not  answer  it.  It  was 
the  last  letter  she  ever  received  from  Riley.  —  ED. 

"The  letter  referred  to  hi  the  first  paragraph  of  this  letter 
of  June  26th  as  my  little  'grandma'  letter  volunteered  some 
advice  respecting  his  one  failing."  —  Signed  statement  by 
Elizabeth  Brunn,  nee  Kahle. 

[149] 


P.  S. —  This  I  wrote  weeks  ago  and 
thought  I  sent  it  to  the  office,  but  just  now 
I  find  it  here  —  "I  forget  everything,"  I 
should  have  said,  instead  of  ending  other 
side  as  I  did! 

I  do  wonder  if  this  will  ever  reach  you. 
Someway  I'm  afraid  not.  I  have  "so  much 
to  do  —  so  little  done!"  Almost  ready  to 
cry  out.  Time  seems  utterly  stagnant  — 
and  my  life  and  all,  and  everything!  I  go 
about  and  I  write  some,  but  always  I  am 
very  tired  and  blue  and  hopeless.  The 
sun  shines,  but  7  don't.  If  you  do  get  this, 
write  to  me  at  once  and  do  something,  if 
possible,  to  "chirk  a  fellow  up!" 

God  bless  you,  my  friend,  and  me,  too! 

As  ever, 

J.  W.  R. 

Greenfield,  Ind., 

June  26,  1884. 
Mrs.  Matthews :  — 

Having   addressed   our   mutual   friend, 
Miss  Kahle,  through  your  care  on  former 
occasions,  and  now  being  uncertain  as  to  her 
[1501 


present  place  and  number,  I  ask  you  to 
favor  me  by  giving  —  or  mailing  to  her  — 
the  enclosed  note.  By  so  doing  you  will 
place  me  under  many  obligations;  and  so 
hoping,  I  am, 

Very  respectfully  yours, 

JAS.  W.  RILEY 

P.  S.  —  If  Miss  Kahle  is  not  with  you, 
and  her  address  unknown,  will  you  favor 
me  further  by  return  of  letter? 

J.  W.  R. 


[1511 


APPENDIX 

It  will  be  remembered  that  in  Riley's 
first  poem  written  to  Elizabeth  Kahle  (after 
wards  Mrs.  Brunn)  he  stated  that  he  had 
always  known  her,  — 

....  long  before 
God  sprinkled  stars  upon  the  floor 
Of  Heaven  and  swept  this  soul  of  mine 
So  far  beyond  the  reach  of  thine. 

And  those  readers  who  believe  in  Spiritual 
ism  will  perhaps  be  interested  in  the  fol 
lowing  statement  by  Mrs.  Brunn:  — 

"When  James  Whitcomb  Riley  had  been 
dead  less  than  a  year  a  seance  was  being 
held  by  Professor  Pierre  L.  A.  O.  Keeler 
at  the  Boquet  Street  Spiritual  Church,  Oak 
land.  I,  being  present,  requested  a  mes 
sage  from  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  this 
message  to  be  in  verse,  and  the  subject 
to  be  'After  Death.'  I  stated  that  I  desired 
this  verse  to  end  a  book  which  I  then  con 
templated  producing,  using  the  letters  I  had 
[1531 


received  from  Riley  as  the  ground  work. 
To  that  request  I  received  the  following 
reply,  written  on  a  slate,  but  not  in  Riley's 
autograph:  — 

As  you  might  picture  an  angel 
touching  gently  the  harp  strings  at  the 
throne,  so  do  your  sweet  contempla 
tions  of  me  touch  the  harp  strings  of 
my  soul,  and  put  me  in  harmonious 
accord  with  all  about  me.  I  wish  you 
were  with  me. 

If  possible  come  here  Sunday  night 
and  I  will  give  you  through  this  me 
dium  a  fitting  verse  with  which  to  close 
'After  Death.' 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

A  week  later  —  on  the  succeeding  Sun 
day  night  —  the  following  lines  entitled 
'After  Death',  were  given  in  the  form  of 
slate-writing  [see  facsimile],  in  Riley's  own 
autograph,  as  follows :  — 

Tis  after  death  —  the  mortal  struggle 

done,  — 
'Tis  after  death  —  the  new  life  just 

begun,  — 
That  rays  effulgent  from  the  Land  of 

Light 

11541 


Whose  dawn  ne'er  knows  the  shadows 
of  a  night, 

Past  distant  suns  whose  dreamy  mists 
display 

That  winding  belt  we  call  the  Milky 
Way, 

Shoot  down  the  starry  depths  to  thy 
lone  soul 

And  light  its  journey  toward  the  on 
ward  goal. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Later  the  following  spirit  message  was 
received  from  Riley  and  was  published  in 
the  Progressive  Thinker,  of  February  9, 
1918,  in  the  Message  Department,  edited 
by  Pierre  L.  O.  A,  Keeler:  — 

James  Whitcomb  flf/ey.— lamhere 
today  to  take  advantage  of  simply  an 
other  way  to  extend  pleasant  thoughts 
to  those  on  earth  who  are  dear  to  me. 
Today  I  come  from  the  heights  of  the 
supernal  world  to  place  at  this  sancti 
fied  shrine  a  kindly  tribute  of  memory 
to  a  woman  who  in  youth  and  maidenly 
beauty  I  loved  as  dearly  as  my  own 
life.  For  this  sweet  soul  my  esteem, 
respect  and  affection  have  never  faded. 
To  know  her  is  but  to  make  one  in 
cline  to  the  noble  and  lofty.  Please 

[155] 


convey  my  tender  thoughts  to  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Brunn,  of  Pittsburgh,  Pa. 

About  a  year  after  the  first  message  was 
received  at  the  Oakland  Church  the  follow 
ing,  written  in  pencil  on  the  customary  card 
that  is  placed  within  the  slate  for  lead  pencil 
messages,  was  transmitted  through  the 
same  medium  by  whom  the  first  slate  read 
ings  were  received,  and  read  as  follows :  — 

Dear  One:  Your  tenderness  of  soul 
comes  to  me  unmistakably.  I  have 
never  ceased  to  think  of  you,  and  have 
seen  you  whenever  there  was  a  way  to 
do  so.  The  sentiment  of  my  young 
heart  I  was  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to 
analyze  in  those  days  back  in  the  'gone 
by.'  Now  I  know  they  were  the  ech 
oes  of  the  lone  shafts  that  fell  upon 
me  from  your  dear  eyes  and  mind  and 
heart  and  soul.  I  loved  you  more 
than  I  knew,  and  certainly  more  than 
you  knew. 

I  am  unable  to  locate  the  poem  you 
spoke  of,  either  in  my  memory  or  my 
surroundings.  When  you  come  over 
here,  your  mother  will  meet  you  first, 
then  I  will.  We  recognize  by  instinct, 
—  intuition.  Your  own  fertile  brain 
that  could  conceive  such  a  book  as  you 

[1561 


have  arranged  can  think  of  a  better 
title  than  I  can. 

I  cannot  think  of  anything  I  have 
left  unsaid  or  undone.  All  you  can  do 
for  my  happiness  is  to  keep  on  claim 
ing  me  as  your  own.  Your  book  seems 
to  me  complete.  I  rejoice  that  you 
wrote  me,  —  remembered 

Yours  faithfully, 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  statement  in  the  foregoing  in  regard 
to  the  'poem'  was  in  reply  to  a  request  from 
me  for  the  text  of  a  poem  entitled  'To  a 
Poet,'  which  poem  was  sent  him  by  me  and 
was  the  means  of  beginning  our  acquaint 
ance. 

The  next  statement  was  in  reply  to  a 
question  as  to  how  we  should  recognize  our 
friends  over  there. 

The  next  statement  is  in  response  to  a 
declaration  made  by  me  of  my  intention  to 
write  a  book  about  him,  which  was  to  con 
tain  the  letters  I  had  received  from  him. 

The  next  communication  of  the  spirit  of 
Mr.  Riley  was  received  through  Mr.  Roy 
Holmyard,  whose  address  is  No.  5  Hedge 
row  Lane,  Clifton,  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  and 
[157] 


was  made  known  to  me  through  a  letter, 
addressed  to  me  by  him,  stating  that  at  a 
certain  seance  the  spirit  of  Riley  had  ap 
peared,  and  among  other  things  asked  if 
any  one  present  knew  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Brunn, 
of  Pittsburgh,  Pa.,  and  if  there  was  not,  to 
please  communicate  to  her  the  following 
message :  — 

There  are  memories  embalmed  in  the 

love  of  the  heart 
Which  live  on  while  existence  doth 

run; 
In  the  fondest  of  these  hath  my  whole 

life  been  part 
Of  the  life  of  Elizabeth  Brunn. 

I  think  of  no  more  evidential  mes 
sage  than  to  write  the  above  verse  and 
to  explain  it  by  saying  that  in  my 
youth  I  loved  a  young  and  beautiful 
girl  whose  image  never  faded,  as  did 
other  fancies  and  forms  and  events, 
from  my  tender  deceased  heart  and 
hope  and  soul.  Mrs.  Brunn  still  lives 
in  Pittsburgh,  Pa.,  on  Lehigh  Avenue, 
as  existing  evidence  of  the  truth  of  my 
statement,  which  being  a  secret  so  far 
as  the  world  knows,  will  be  an  evi 
dence  better  than  any  I  can  give  that 
this  is  from 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

[158] 


In  May,  1921,  Professor  Keeler  trans 
mitted  to  me  a  spirit  writing  in  pencil  in  the 
autograph  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  as 
follows :  — 

Fair  spirit-mate  mine  — 

Elizabeth  Kahle  — 
Whose  pure  soul  divine 

Heaven's  heights  could  scale, 
Though  a  thousand  names  had  been 

added  to  thine, 
And  a  thousand  great  men  led  a  bridal 

line,  — 
And  a  thousand  new  joys  like  the  sun's 

bright  shine 
Had  fallen  on  thee, 

Thou'd  still  be  the  one 
Created  for  me 
For  Time's  endless  run. 

Gentle  one,  you  shall  find  a  way  in 
this  'after-land'  to  tell  me  much  that 
even  now  I  cannot  divine.  I  am  not 
reconciled  to  any  thought,  any  bright 
anticipation,  other  than  meeting  you. 
Well  said  that  this  avenue  seems  to  be 
the  only  satisfactory  one  for  me  to 
reach  you.  You  cannot  do  for  me, 
dear;  it  is  for  me  to  do  for  you!  You 
cannot  measure  your  earth  stay.  Don't 
psychologize  yourself  into  passing  soon. 
Earth  denied  us  much;  but  heaven 

[159] 


has  observed  the  shortcoming  and  will 
right  it. 

Where  and  how  shalt  thou  earliest 

meet  me? 
What  are  the  words  you  first  will 

say? 
By  what  name  hast  thou  learned  to 

greet  me? 

James,  just  now,  —  But  that  other 
day? 

With  the  self-same  sunlight  upon  us, 
I  am  waiting,  dear  love,  somewhere, 

He  you  would  honor,  he  that  you  wish 

for, 
Thy  king,  thy  loved  one  'over  there.1* 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

The  signature  on  this  card  is  identical 
with  that  on  the  slate-message,  and  in 
about  the  center  there  is  a  pencil  drawing 
of  two  hearts  pierced  by  an  arrow. 

I  hereby  declare  that  the  facts  set  out  in 
these  pages  are  true  to  the  best  of  my  belief 
and  recollection;  that  the  slate-writing  is 

*As  to  what,  if  any,  part  Riley's  spirit  took  in  dictating  these 
lines,  or  any  of  the  preceding  verses,  is  a  question  upon  which 
the  opinions  of  readers  may  differ;  but  certainly  all  must  agree 
that  he  could  hardly  have  written  such  mediocre  verse  while 
in  his  mortal  state.  —  ED. 

[160] 


the  original,  and  the  message  was  trans- 
nutted  while  the  slate  was  being  held  in  my 
hands;  that  the  pencil  message  hi  Riley's 
autograph  is  as  received;  that  the  forty- 
four  letters  and  their  accompaniments  are 
the  originals  received  by  me  from  James 
Whitcomb  Riley ;  that  they  are  in  his  auto 
graph,  and  that  they  have  been  in  my  pos 
session  since  their  receipt;  that  none  of 
them  have  ever  been  published,  and  that 
not  more  than  ten  people  have  ever  read 
the  originals. 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  BRUNN 
nee  ELIZABETH  KAHLE." 

"Sworn  to  and  subscribed  before  me  this 
25th  day  of  August,  1921. 

C.  C.  ALLEN, 
Notary  Public." 


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AUT^S^^^7^T 

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